


Cross My Heart (And Hope to Die)

by bitchmitchie, starrywrite



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Asphyxiation, Attempted Murder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Language, M/M, Mitch didn't/doesn't like Scott very much, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Swearing, Violence, Weapons, Zombie Apocalypse, but it's all good, for now, i use the term 'enemies' loosely, they curse quite a bit in this jsyk, various mentions of death throughout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchmitchie/pseuds/bitchmitchie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrywrite/pseuds/starrywrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If someone would’ve asked Mitch how he thought the world was ending, he would’ve said it would be the day Beyonce retired from music forever. At this point, Beyonce’s retirement would be considered a blessing on his life compared to the actual end of the world. In all honesty, Mitch probably would’ve expected the end of the world to be a bit more dramatic - that everyone would’ve went down in flames or meteors would make a comeback. But no, instead the end of the world is an action-adventure survival horror video game. </p><p>(Or, the one where Mitch and Scott begrudgingly join forces to travel through a zombie filled California in hopes of finding even the slightest bit of peace within the madness that is the their new reality).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. welcome to the new age

**Author's Note:**

> COURTNEY AND PALOMA'S FIRST COLLAB FIC <3 YAY!!
> 
> we’ve been working on this for the past few months and it’s /finally/ ready to be posted and it’s pretty dang good, if i do say so myself B) 
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au. 
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include:** _mild violence, mild gore, weapons (specifically guns), and language._
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

If someone would’ve asked Mitch how he thought the world was ending, he would’ve said it would be the day Beyonce retired from music forever. At this point, Beyonce’s retirement would be considered a blessing on his life compared to the actual end of the world. In all honesty, Mitch probably would’ve expected the end of the world to be a bit more dramatic - that everyone would’ve went down in flames or meteors would make a comeback. But no, instead the end of the world is an action-adventure survival horror video game.

It had been two months since a mutated strain of mad cow disease, the fatal neurodegenerative disease that causes a spongy degeneration in the brain and spinal cord, had mutated into what most had referred to as “mad person disease.” Mad person disease then became “mad zombie disease” after it’s effect on the entire United States population, turning American people into vicious zombies.

The undead creatures were unlike anything out of an Edgar Wright film; these zombies don’t just have a hunger for human flesh. They’re fast, they’re violent, and they’re extremely aggressive. In the past couple of months, it’s been discovered that they’re attracted to loud noises, though no one knows why. And while they are, in many senses of the word, mindless, they are in some ways more intelligent than could’ve been anticipated - but they can be easily outsmarted, should one know how to handle them.

Mitch Grassi was one of those people.

Mitch was one of the rare few unaffected by the virus, and still remains to be one hundred percent human. The actual human population these days is limited, most likely to the double digits; most people alive don’t know how to fight off a zombie if their life depended on it, so they’re living in hiding - a temporary fix. Other people, like Mitch, are constantly in motion. He’s been traveling throughout California by foot, hoping to find a place unaffected by zombies. So far, he hasn’t been lucky, but despite constantly running into zombies, he hasn’t run into many humans either. He considers that to be a blessing in disguise; the only thing Mitch dislikes more than zombies is people. Because there isn’t a person - dead or alive - that Mitch can trust anymore and he doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.

He's not sure how long it's been since he felt secure in one location - and that's a good thing, he supposes. It's important to always question the surroundings he finds himself in. Mitch tries to keep his mind clear and on a single path. His goal every night is to find somewhere safe, secluded and, most importantly, free of zombies. If he has to fight his way through them, so be it.

The sun is about to set - something he was forced to learn after the apocalypse occurred because really, what was time in midst of all this madness? There was no use for watches or daylight savings when people are more worried about getting killed every day - and Mitch continues walking, tightening his grip on the massive bag he carries over his shoulder. He knows he needs to find somewhere safe within the hour because being outside in the dark is an absolute death wish, and Mitch has no intention of dying tonight.

Mitch slows his pace as he rounds the corner of a building and leans against the wall for a quick rest. He can feel his pulse throbbing in his neck and the sweat running down his face, his clothes sticking to his skin. He would give absolutely anything for a shower.

He peeks his head over the side of the building to see what he's about to walk in on and his eyebrow raises immediately when he sees a massive Jeep parked in front of what looks like a grocery store. This car doesn't look any different than the other trashed, abandoned cars he's seen during his travels, except for one thing: it's perfectly parked, right in front of the main doors. A perfect getaway, perhaps?

Mitch licks his lips at the thought of driving a vehicle again, his feet throbbing just at the hint that he might not have to walk for the rest of his days. Most cars are absolutely done for, and Mitch has no idea where the hell where he would find gas, but if this car has a full tank, he would be set for at least twenty four hours of driving. He could be out of California by then.

The issue with a proper car, of course, is that someone was probably driving it. A human, who is probably just as prepared as Mitch is, and they are probably inside the grocery store with home field advantage. He is not intimidated by that.

Mitch shrugs off his bag and kneels on the ground for a quick second, still hiding behind the wall, and checks the barrel of his favorite gun, a half sawn off shotty, to see how many bullets he has left. He grins when he sees the barrel is still full, thanks to the disgusting zombie he got rid of a few towns over who just happened to be carrying a few rounds in his pocket. Poor bastard.

Mitch puts the bag over his shoulder once more and breathes in deeply, letting the air out slowly before he rounds the corner, gun in his hands and ready to shoot just in case. He thinks about just hotwiring the car but that could take minutes, minutes that Mitch won't be able to take back if the person finds him there while he is too distracted to defend himself. He walks slowly to watch his surroundings, and hopes to whoever is listening that the sliding doors won't make any noise as he enters the building.

He holds his breath as he walks inside, surveying the scene before him with his shotty held tightly in his hands. He doesn’t shake - he used to shake so badly all over; his hands, his legs, his entire body would tremble. Holding a gun used to terrify him. Now it’s like an extension of his arm. He doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger anymore and he isn’t sure if that’s something that should concern him or not. 

As quietly as he can, he walks further into the store, already on edge because he knows he’s not alone and he makes sure to glance around every couple of seconds to ensure his safety. He doesn’t know who he could potentially be up against, but he isn’t afraid. Fear doesn’t come easily to Mitch, not anymore. If anything, he fears himself more than anyone else. That’s another thing that should probably concern him, at least to some extent. 

Mitch walks through the grocery store in complete silence until he reaches the cereal aisle, and then he sees him. Mitch has to bite his lip so he doesn't gasp, and he takes a step back so he can evaluate what he's about to go into.

The man is talI. Much, much taller than Mitch. He's blonde and has wide shoulders, which clearly means he works out, or at least he used to. The man has his back to Mitch as he surveys boxes of protein bars, checking the expiration dates before he shoves them in his bag quickly and efficiently. Mitch smirks when he sees the rifle the man has strapped over his shoulder, thinking about how great it will be to have it in his hands. 

The man seems well prepared, but not prepared enough for Mitch as he walks down the aisle unnoticed.

Mitch points his shotgun at the back of his head and cocks it, the sound echoing throughout the otherwise quiet store and Mitch can see the man tense up, his back muscles going taut through the fabric of his shirt. “Give me your keys,” Mitch says, his voice hard and sounding foreign to his own ears. “Now!”

Slowly, the man before him turns around with his hands up and when he finally faces Mitch, he doesn’t see fear in the blond boy’s eyes. In fact, when he gets a look at Mitch and his small figure, he scoffs, and Mitch’s blood boils.

“I’m not going to ask you again!” he snaps, feeling incensed.

When the blond still doesn’t cooperate, Mitch decides it’s time to up the ante a bit, and he fires a warning shot right by his head. The bullet pierces a box of cereal on the shelf behind him and the blond nearly drops to the floor, covering his hands with his ears and shouting, “Fuck!”

“Now give me,” Mitch shouts, making sure he’s heard because Blondie is currently yelling, _are you out of your mind?!_ “Your fucking keys!”

The man stands straight, his eyes a piercing blue and he looks _livid_. “Are you fucking _crazy_?” he snarls, his voice much quieter, and he reaches for his own gun.

Mitch cocks the shotgun again and keeps it in position, not feeling the least bit threatened. “You haven't seen crazy,” he murmurs, and when the man's eyes shift to look behind Mitch, he snaps, “Don't fuck with me! Give me the keys, now!”

A groan escapes the blond’s lips as he raises his gun, and Mitch tenses up, pointing his gun directly at the man’s chest. “Not only are you crazy,” the man says. “But you’re a fucking idiot.” He cocks his own gun and before Mitch can even open his mouth, he pulls the trigger and Mitch hears a sickening _splat!_ sound from behind him. 

The back of his neck suddenly feels wet and he turns around slowly to see a dead zombie on the floor, blood splattered on the wall behind him. The porcelain tiles of the shop are being stained red. The soles of Mitch’s shoes are soaked with blood just like the back of his neck is, and he swallows back a feeling of nausea. 

(He also swallows back the smallest feeling of admiration because the blond took out the zombie with only one bullet.)

“Duck!” the man shouts, again before Mitch can even respond in any way at all, and Mitch complies - thankfully so, because the blond fires his gun and takes out another incoming zombie. The undead monster is down almost as soon as the blond pulls the trigger, but there’s no room for celebration. Zombies always travel in groups.

Mitch turns his head when he hears Blondie swear under his breath, and he reaches out to grab Mitch’s shoulder and yanks on his sleeve as he starts to run. “Let’s go!” 

“What?” Mitch pulls his arm away, but he starts moving anyway because there are a number of zombies creeping up on them and he knows better than to stay here. “Hell no!”

“You gonna try and kill them all by yourself, tough guy?” he snaps and Mitch, feeling stubborn as ever, stops in his tracks just to turn around and start shooting. Like Blondie, he doesn’t miss a shot but it feels as though when he takes down one, two more appear in its place, and they’re so horrifically outnumbered, Mitch stops shooting to prevent himself from running out of bullets. They’re coming for them, they move quickly, and Mitch’s heart starts to race. 

“Look,” Blondie says and Mitch turns to look at him. His cornflower eyes are harden into something resembling a glare. “Either you follow me and get your skinny ass into my truck, or you stay here and die. Those are your options.”

Mitch isn’t a fan of either option, but for all intents and purposes, he chooses Blondie over death.

Mitch rolls his eyes and starts running down the aisle, hearing the zombies make their disgusting moaning noises behind them. He refuses to look back, just focusing on his pace and on catching up with the man, who snapped into a full out sprint when he realized Mitch was actually following him.

Blondie glances back at him and says, “Just - just watch out, okay, I put some traps at the end of the aisle - “

Mitch blocks him out, rolling his eyes and saying, “Yeah, I got it, smartass.” He starts running faster when he can see the entrance doors and his mind switches into full survival mode: run, don't look back, and just breathe, in and out.

The man runs past the end of the aisle with no problem and Mitch is steps behind him when something catches him at his ankle and he gasps at the sudden sting, his body immediately flying forward. He barely has time to put his hands in front of him before he's falling face first onto the ground. Mitch grits his teeth and pushes himself up on his hands, confused, and he cries out when he feels it - the thin line of wire that made him trip is nearly wrapped around his ankle, digging into his skin.

He can feel the blood roll down his ankle and soak through his jeans and into his shoes and he hisses, pressing his other foot on the ground to stand up. He knows the zombies are right behind him and he's the perfect meal; already bleeding and on the ground, waiting for them, and he _cannot_ let that happen.

Mitch makes a pained noise when he tugs his ankle away from the wire, the pain excruciating to say the least but he's had worse, he can do this. He takes a step forward with his hurt foot and cries out again, falling onto the ground and slamming his knees onto the tile immediately, hissing when it sends shocks of pain through his body. 

Mitch grits his teeth and tries to stand again, letting out a thick sob when he falls once more, realizing his leg is useless. He whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to crawl forward using his hands and his one good leg but the pain sends tremors throughout his body. His ankle is throbbing and blood is pulsing out and his breathing starts to come out as gasps when he hears how close they are behind him, their dead moaning nearly matching his own and he thinks fuck, _fuck_ \- 

And then he's being lifted off the ground swiftly, an arm under his legs and one under his back with no difficulty and Mitch nearly screams at the pain when his leg is pulled in the wrong direction. He opens his eyes and sees that it's Blondie carrying him, hissing when the man dips down to grab Mitch's bag and his shotty.

“I fucking _told_ you -” he starts lecturing, carrying him towards the entrance doors and Mitch immediately snaps, “Let _go_ of me, what the _fuck_?”

The man rolls his eyes and continues moving, running through the doors and he snaps back, “You can continue being a dick when we get to my truck, we don't have time for this right now!”

Mitch glares at him, the pain making him even more irritated and this is a terrible situation to be in, who even knows who this guy is or what he could want? But Mitch is a bit more concerned about surviving and he hears how close the zombies are, how much faster they're dragging through the store because of the blood dripping from his ankle and Mitch grits his teeth, saying, “Duck!”

The man immediately ducks his head down and lifts Mitch's chest a little so he can reach over his shoulder and Mitch cocks his gun and takes a few shots, watching some zombies fly backwards from the intensity of his shotgun.

Blondie swings open the door of the truck and warns him with a quiet, “Sorry,” before he all but throws Mitch onto the passenger seat. Mitch cries out, his ankle nearly twisting at the movement.

Mitch gasps out, “Fuck, you _asshole!_ ” and the man barely glances at him, just throws his bags onto the backseat and slams the door closed. He starts up the truck, pressing on the gas pedal so hard that the wheels screech on the pavement. 

Mitch grabs onto the armrest so he doesn't go flying forward and he cringes when he hears the bodies of zombies slamming against the back windows of the car. He doesn't look back, because he never does. Mitch's eyes widen when he realizes how close he was to certain death and his breathing slowly starts to calms down, his legs still trembling from the pain throbbing through his ankle.

He glances over at the man once they are far away enough and Mitch takes him in for the first time. He has dirty blond scruff on his jaw and chin and his clothes are dirty and nearly ripped apart. His fingers grip the steering wheel so tight that Mitch can see the veins on the back of his hands, but that's the only thing about the man that looks tense.

Mitch immediately starts to think about an escape plan; he can't stay in this truck. He has no idea where this man could be taking him, this was _completely_ out of the question and out of his comfort zone and he tenses, his mind running through ideas and he's tightening his grip on his shotgun -

“You can relax, y'know,” the man says quietly and Mitch snaps back from his daydream, turning to look at him. Blondie focuses on the road - or what's left of the road, anyway. “You're safe now,” he says, pressing harder on the gas pedal so the car gains more speed.

Mitch looks forward, watching the sun set off in the distance. _We'll see about that_ , he thinks, and he tightens his grip on his shotgun again. _We'll see._


	2. sweat my rust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By now, Scott figures he should be used to the unexpected; there shouldn’t be any room left for surprises. And then _this guy_ happens - this obnoxious, feisty little asshole with a gun bigger than he is appears out of nowhere when Scott is minding his own business, just trying to survive in this hell on Earth. This guy happens and suddenly Scott’s day is turned upside-down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter twwwwwooo!! yay!! thanks so much to everyone who's read our debut fic so far, we really appreciate it <3
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au.
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include** : _mild violence, mild gore, mentions of blood, weapons (specifically guns), and language._
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> we both REALLY like this chapter, and we hope you all will too!!! ^_^ feedback is much appreciated!! <3

By now, Scott figures he should be used to the unexpected; there shouldn’t be any room left for surprises. And then _this guy_ happens - this obnoxious, feisty little asshole with a gun bigger than he is appears out of nowhere when Scott is minding his own business, just trying to survive in this hell on Earth. This guy happens and suddenly Scott’s day is turned upside-down. 

He glances over at the pint-sized brunet in the passenger seat of his car; he looks so much smaller than he did when he was trying to shoot Scott. 

“You’re bleeding,” Scott says when he glances down at his leg. He can’t tell if the damage done is worse than it looks because his jeans are currently soaked with blood, the dark blue denim stained with a thick coat of red. His ankle is bent at an odd angle and there’s a nasty gash going across it that’s definitely going to leave a scar. He couldn’t forget this day if he tried. 

The brunet grunts. “Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” he grumbles and Scott just wants to roll his eyes. He wonders if it’s exhausting being so damn bitter all of the time. 

Instead, because he believes in the power of karma and positive thinking and all of those things he used to read about in books Before all hell broke loose, he says, “When it’s safe, I’ll stop and find us a place to stay for the night and I’ll patch your leg up for you.”

The boy tenses up when Scott says _us_ and _stay the night_ and he quickly chokes out, “I can take care of myself.” He pauses, looking out of the window. “Just… drop me off somewhere, okay? Anywhere.”

Scott can see the tension in the smaller boy's jaw when he grits his teeth, how his eyes are swimming with tears from the pain, the way his hands are balled up into tight fists. “You can’t even walk,” Scott tries to reason with him. “Do you really think I’m going to leave you by yourself in this condition?” 

“I’ve been in worse conditions,” he says, and he bites his lip as he tries to lift his leg up and rest it on the dashboard of Scott’s truck, only to gasp out in pain. Scott nearly crashes when he hears the pained cry leave his lips, his heart racing a little.

“Jesus,” he swears under his breath. “At least let me bandage you up, okay?” he asks. “You can’t walk around with blood on your clothes, you’re going to get an infection. And I’m sure the last thing you want is to lose your leg.” 

When the boy doesn’t say anything, Scott assumes it’s because he knows that he’s right. He quietly adds, “You know, like it or not, I think you need me.”

The brunet huffs out a breath of annoyance and he closes his eyes. “I cannot believe this is happening,” he mutters to himself, loud enough for Scott to hear him, and Scott sympathizes with him. He’s probably so scared, being forced to ride around with someone he doesn’t know and on top of that, he’s in pain. Admittedly, Scott feels bad that he can’t help him out. Maybe if they’re lucky they’ll find a drugstore and at the very least, he can get some painkillers. 

“There might be some napkins in the glovebox,” Scott tells him. “You can mop up your mess,” he adds after taking another glance at the boy's leg. The bottom of his jeans are _soaked_ with blood and it’s beginning to drip onto the floor of the truck, the smell making Scott want to gag. He’s never liked blood. 

The brunet rolls his eyes but opens the glove compartment anyway and takes out a handful of napkins, then grunts, “I don’t need your fucking help, you know.”

Scott sighs and murmurs, “God, it must be exhausting being you,” quietly - but loud enough for him to hear, which earns him a smack to the shoulder. Scott’s lips twitch as he fights off a smile. 

“If my leg wasn’t so messed up right now, I’d totally kick your ass,” the brunet informs him.

“Can you even reach my ass?” Scott retorts immediately and this time, he can’t help but laugh when the boy smacks him in the shoulder again. The slightest bit of movement, however, is too much for this little fireball because he hisses in pain almost immediately after, curling up into himself and reaching for his leg. Scott sighs, sympathetically. “Just - hold still, okay?” he tells him. “I’ll stop as soon as I can and I’ll patch your leg up for you.”

“I can do it myself,” he snaps back almost immediately.

“Need I remind you that you literally cannot walk?” Scott replies. 

The brunet huffs in annoyance, practically throwing himself back against Scott’s seat and he crosses his arms across his chest, grumbling, “You’re so fucking annoying,” and Scott can’t help but to smirk a little.

“I may be annoying,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure I just saved your life.”

The boy turns to look out of the window. “Whatever,” is all he mumbles at first and then a moment later adds, “It’s _your_ fault my leg is destroyed now, anyway; it was _your_ stupid wire.”

“I _tried_ to warn you!” Scott insists. “It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention to me! And for the record, it was a zombie trap.” He glances down at his leg and grimaces again, “And it was clearly a great idea.” 

The brunet rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he mutters. Scott takes that as a _yes, it was in fact a brilliant idea and you did save my life, so thank you, kind stranger_. “Where are you taking me?” he asks, growing restless, looking out of the window as he tries to get a grip on his surroundings. Scott’s been in this area for a few days; he knows it backwards and forwards by now. This guy, on the other hand, may not, and Scott can only imagine how scared he must be right now, driving around with a stranger in an area unfamiliar to him. If it were Scott, he’d be terrified. 

“There’s an abandoned pharmacy not too far from here,” he explains. “There might be some things to bandage your leg up with. If not then we'll circle back around to the grocery store. Hopefully the zombies will be gone by then.”

The boy sighs, leaning back against his seat and closing his eyes. “They better have liquor there,” he murmurs.

Scott can't help but smile at that. “Trust me, if they didn't have liquor, we wouldn't be stopping there,” he says, and after a moment of silence he murmurs, “And I _definitely_ need a drink after what you put me through today.”

“You can just drop me off right here, you know,” the brunet replies a beat later, tensing up again.

Scott sighs, speeding the car up. “Just because you made me semi deaf in one ear and we nearly became zombie dinner, doesn't mean I'm just gonna leave you here to die.”

Scott waits for the boy's answer, even expecting another shove, but instead he says, “Well, you wouldn't give me your gun.” Scott glances over at him, surprised to see him smiling. "I tried to warn you, and you weren't listening.”

Scott huffs a little, surprised. “Well, I wasn't going down without a fight, shorty,” he says and the smaller boy all but snorts, saying, “You didn't put up much of a fight, big guy.”

He bites his lip so he doesn't smile. “You caught me off guard and then brought a whole hoard of zombies with you!” He watches the boy roll his eyes and he adds, “Anyway, you and I both know that I could kick your ass.”

The brunet lets out a quick laugh, “Oh, please. I would _love_ to see you try.”

Scott can't help but grin, glancing over at the boy and his petite body, the napkins wrapped around his torn up ankle. “How about we wait until you're all healed up, so it's a fair fight?” he asks and the smaller boy rolls his eyes a little but answers, “Deal,” with a wicked smile.

They're quiet for a few minutes, both watching the messed up world around them and the array of cars stranded on the road they're on when the boy asks, “So you're from Texas?” and Scott's initial reaction is to panic. He makes sure to always hide everything personal to him away in the back seats so no one can take advantage of him and he glances at the boy, searching for something in his hands like a document or something worse, like a _picture_ -

“Relax, big guy,” the brunet says, a half smile on his face. He points his thumb towards the back of the car. “If you don't want people to know where you're from, you might want to change your license plate sometime soon.”

Scott releases the air he didn't realize he was holding and his shoulders relax, his grip loosening up on the steering wheel. The boy shakes his head a little and it looks like he's trying to hold back laughter and it makes Scott smile a little, his head clearing.

“Sorry, I just - you know how things are nowadays,” he tries and the brunet looks at him, saying, “It's okay, you don't have to apologize.”

Scott takes a second to breathe, disappointed in himself for losing his cool so quickly in front of this boy and he answers, “Yeah, I'm from Texas. Arlington, actually.”

The smaller boy hums. “That explains your ego,” he says and Scott scoffs, exclaiming, “Hey!” and making the boy laugh a little as he explains, “What? It's so true!”

Scott can't help but grin and he says, “I see how it is. And where are you from, shorty?”

The brunet plays with the ripped sleeves of his shirt, shrugging, and Scott thinks that maybe he went a little too far in asking. But then he answers, “I'm from here. Hollywood,” in a small voice and Scott can't help but laugh and reply, “Oh _wow_ , that explains _everything_.”

The boy's mouth falls open and he smacks Scott's shoulder again, yelling, “You're such a dick!” but Scott's laughter is contagious and he starts smiling too, shoving Scott again when he doesn't stop and it's been awhile since Scott laughed like this, all carefree and with no worries and then he's gasping and swerving the car to the left so he doesn't slam into the hoard of zombies blocking the intersection in front of them.

Hollywood gasps at the sudden turn, grabbing onto the armrest and Scott's arm so he doesn't go flying out of the window and the turn isn't wide enough because now there are zombies right next to the car. Scott barely has time to breathe before Hollywood is grabbing his gun and shooting out the window, taking down a few at a time with the intensity of the shot and he yells, “Arlington, _floor it!_ " and Scott doesn't have to be told twice, the wheels screeching on the pavement once more while the undead monsters reach into the car and plaster themselves against the windows.

Their moaning and the stench is overwhelming and Scott slams the back of his gun against the hands of a zombie that is trying extra hard to crawl into the car and when that doesn't work, Hollywood shoots it until its head flies off, leaving its hands still clinging to the inside of the window. Scott groans, the stench making his eyes water and he presses his arm against Hollywood’s chest and holds him back against his seat, warning him with a, “Hold on!” before he floors it again and runs over a few of the undead bodies in front of the car.

Hollywood all but screeches, the car bouncing on the bodies like they're suddenly on a rollercoaster and then they're off, shooting down the road with half of the hoard still trying to run after them.

They're both quiet for a while, still trying to calm down from the sudden adrenaline coursing through their veins and Scott takes his arm back, trying to slow down his breathing. “You alright, Hollywood?” he asks after a minute and the boy nods, finally loosening his grip on the shotgun.

Scott glances over at him. Hollywood’s eyes are wide and his chest is heaving and he’s shaking just the slightest bit but he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.” 

“Okay,” Scott mutters in reply, his eyes back on the road, making sure that something like _that_ doesn’t happen again. He breaks the following silence by saying, “You did good, Hollywood,” because he did; Scott’s never seen shooting like that before and he’ll be the first person to admit how impressed he is right now. 

Hollywood smirks a little. “I know,” he says but to Scott’s ears it sounds a little bit like _thank you_.


	3. breaking in, shaping up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch stares at him for a moment, confused. If it were anyone else, he certainly would not be here by now - anyone else would’ve killed him, taken his things, and driven off without a second thought. No one else would be making sure his injured leg was taken care of, that he had been drinking enough water, that he had alcohol to drink, that he was resting after a “day from hell.” And truth be told, Mitch thought that was _normal_ ; it’s the end of the world, for fuck’s sake - there isn’t time to make friends. There’s no _need_ for friends. At the end of the day, the only person you can rely on is yourself, the only person you need to take care of is yourself.
> 
> So why is this guy going out of his way to make sure that Mitch is alright? Why does he care so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who’s back, back again? cross my heart (and hope to die) is back, tell a friend!! here’s the next chapter of CMH - hope you enjoy!!! ^_^
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au. 
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include:** _language and very mild gore._
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Mitch isn’t sure how long Arlington drives around for, but it’s definitely been hours - it has to have been hours, there's no way in hell they’ve only been driving for a few minutes. His back hurts from sitting for so long and his ankle is throbbing, and he just wants everything to _stop_. That’s all he’s wanted for days - hell, _weeks_ now, probably even months; he just wants everything to stop. He’s so tired, physically and emotionally, and he isn’t sure how much more of this he can take. He isn’t sure exactly what it means but he really just wants everything to stop for a little while. 

“How much longer?” he grumbles, half hoping he doesn’t sound like a bratty teenager but mostly not caring if he does. 

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Arlington says and Mitch sighs in annoyance. He just wants to get out this damn truck so bad. “Here,” Arlington doesn’t take his eyes off of the road as he reaches for a bottle of water on the floor. “Drink this. The last thing we need is for you to be dehydrated on top of your fucked up leg.” When Mitch doesn’t take the water, he glances at him and says, “It’s clean water, don’t worry. I didn’t get it out of some swampy river or something.”

Mitch grimaces but he takes the bottle anyway, mostly because he’s too tired to put up a fight. And also because he’s fucking thirsty. He gulps down nearly half the bottle all at once and has to force himself to stop because he doesn’t want to finish the entire bottle in less than five minutes. 

“Sorry,” the man says quietly, watching Mitch guzzle down the water as he parks the car. “I should have offered it sooner.”

Mitch shrugs and looks around them, noticing the broken down grocery store they're parked in front of seems quiet and undisturbed, which makes him worry. “Is this the place?” he asks.

“Yep,” Arlington answers and turns off the headlights. He reaches into the backseat and pulls out another gun, a smaller rifle, and checks the bullets before he looks at Mitch and says, “I'm gonna go check things out. I wanna make sure it's clear before we go in there and then I'll come get you, alright?”

Mitch frowns, wanting to go in there and kill some zombies himself, but he rolls his eyes and settles back down on the seat, grumbling, “Fine.”

The man smiles at him before he leaves the truck and Mitch takes a quick glance at the steering wheel. He groans when he realizes the keys were taken away and he crosses his arms, all but pouting angrily as he watches Arlington walk into the store, his gun in his hands.

About ten minutes pass, Mitch assumes, and he's nearly falling asleep. He misses the days when he could play with his phone to pass the time, because now waiting is just absolute torture. He hates that he has to wait in this stupid truck because his leg won't cooperate, it makes him feel useless.

He's about to start getting worried when he sees Blondie exit the store, no wounds or blood in sight. Mitch opens the door as he gets near and he hops out of the truck, landing on his good leg, and Arlington rushes over, saying, “Whoa, easy.”

Mitch glares at him. “I can walk just _fine_ ,” he snaps.

Arlington sighs. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” and Mitch can’t help but roll his eyes because he’s already hurt himself. “Just -” he sighs again. “Let me help you, okay?” 

Mitch goes to protest when Arlington rolls his eyes and quickly says, “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re a big boy, and you can take care of yourself, and you don’t need me. Whatever, just let me carry you inside.”

Mitch’s face flushes, but he still clings to his stubborn pride and proceeds to try and walk. He didn’t anticipate, however, not being able to put any weight at all on his bad leg because the second he tries, he stumbles forward and hisses, “ _Fuck_!” Arlington grabs him immediately, his hands on his waist, and Mitch grasps his shoulders, digging his nails into them because his leg hurts so fucking bad. He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose, trying to calm himself down. _It’s just a little pain,_ he tells himself. _No need to freak out._

“Can you stop being stubborn for two seconds and just let me help you?” Arlington asks him. “I don’t think you’re going to make it very far at this rate.”

Mitch sighs in defeat because as much as he hates to admit it, he knows Arlington is right. God, he hates that. “Don’t forget my gun and my bag,” he grumbles, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“Of course I won’t,” Arlington tells him, gently pushing him back against his truck. Mitch braces himself against it and watches as Arlington gathers up his things, hoisting his bag over his shoulder and holding his gun in one hand. Just as Mitch opens his mouth to ask him how he’s going to get all of his things _and_ him inside, Arlington wraps his other arm around his waist, scooping him up without losing balance. 

Mitch gasps a little, clinging to Arlington’s shirt as he cradles him against his chest while still making sure to be careful of his bad leg. He watches the blond in awe, unable to fathom how one person could be so strong. 

He damn near groans when they get inside the grocery store and sees that the man is leading them towards the back stairs so they can reach the employee offices. He's about to protest because there's no way this guy can carry all of these things, including himself, up the stairs but Arlington doesn't even pause, just keeps walking up the steps like it's nothing.

Mitch is blushing by the time they get to the top of the stairs. He feels like a big baby. He feels _useless_ and that's probably the worst feeling in the world, not being able to defend yourself. He hates that he has to depend on this guy; it's uncalled for and dangerous and the exact opposite of what he wants. He starts planning an escape as he looks around the room, knowing he has to get his hands on those keys.

Arlington sets him down gently on an old employee desk, setting Mitch's belongings down next to him. The sun has nearly set at this point, so the room is getting darker as time passes and Mitch can only see the glint in Arlington's eyes and the outline of his lips as he says, “I'm going to get the rest of the things and look for supplies downstairs. You think you'll be okay up here?”

Mitch shrugs and grabs his gun. “I have my shotty and I'm not afraid to use it.”

The man smirks a little and his teeth shine in the glow of the setting sun. "Don't I know it," he says and he walks out of the room, half closing the door behind him. Mitch yells, "Don't forget the booze!" and he can't help but smirk when Arlington yells back, "Wouldn't dream of it!"

* * *

Arlington comes back into the room with his hands full and Mitch is starting to feel a little woozy. He knows he lost a lot of blood but he's not too worried because he can still feel the throbbing pain coming from his ankle, which means he hasn't lost feeling in it and he thinks that's a good sign. 

He puts everything down on the table next to Mitch and sets up a lantern, the soft light pulsing through the room and Mitch takes this time to look at Arlington a little better. The shadows of the lantern show off his jawline and intense blue eyes and Mitch has to look away so they don't make awkward eye contact. The man is beautiful and Mitch thinks it's so fucking annoying. Why couldn't this guy just be hideous?

He slowly lifts up the bottom of his jeans to see the damage and he hisses quietly when he sees the gash across his ankle. The bleeding finally stopped but it still looks repulsive, his ankle nearly double its normal size and the discoloration making his skin look purple.

"How are you doing?" Arlington asks, going through his bags and Mitch answers, "Oh, just peachy," which makes him grin a little. He’s returned with as many bottles of alcohol as he could carry, and Mitch immediately reaches for a bottle of whiskey, taking the cap off and taking a long sip, humming at the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth. The blond’s eyebrows raise in surprise when Mitch doesn’t even flinch as he drinks the savory liquid straight from the bottle, and Mitch’s lips curl into a smirk as he takes down some more. 

Arlington unscrews the cap off of a bottle of vodka, and extends one of his hands towards him. “Alright, Hollywood, give me your hand,” he says.

Mitch raises an eyebrow at him, lowering his bottle. “What? No way.”

“Suit yourself,” Arlington shrugs and sighs, and when Mitch opens his mouth to ask him just what the hell he’s doing, Arlington pours some of the vodka onto his ankle. 

Mitch nearly smashes the bottle of whiskey against the desktop when he feels the initial sting, the pain so intense it makes him curl into himself and he has to cover his mouth to muffle his scream. “ _Fuck!_ ” he cries, tears burning his eyes and blurring his vision but he doesn’t dare let them fall. His body goes tense and he bites his palm, breathing heavily through his nose.

“I’m sorry!” Arlington says and Mitch glares at him. “You need to put something on your leg or else you’re definitely going to get an infection. All of the rubbing alcohol in this place has already expired and this was the only thing I could think of.” When Mitch continues to glare at him, Arlington huffs, “I _tried_ to warn you!”

Mitch wants to protest that he didn’t try very hard at all to warn him about the impending pain he was about to inflict on him, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue - not after that, at least. He exhales slowly, lowering his hand from his mouth and he tries to relax a bit as he tells Arlington, “Put more on. I need it.”

Knowing what’s to come this time around isn’t making the pain seem any less frightening and his heart already starts racing in anticipation. Arlington extends his hand to him once again, and Mitch eyes it warily before hesitantly taking it. He wraps his (rather large) hand around Mitch’s, his fingers folding around them nicely, and he doesn’t even warn Mitch - once _again_ \- before he pours more vodka on his wound. Mitch bites his lip so hard he nearly draws blood, and his body goes to curl into itself once again. He digs his nails into Arlington’s hand and the blond whispers, “Sorry, I’m sorry,” and Mitch just groans in response. 

His eyes well up with tears but he blinks them back and with his free hand, he reaches for his bottle of Fireball and takes a nice long swig, the burn in his chest a slight distraction from the burn in his leg. He can feel Arlington’s thumb gently brush across his knuckles as he murmurs, “At least now we know your leg isn’t going to fall off,” and Mitch goes rigid, awkwardly untangling his hand from the blond’s, whose cheeks tint pink afterwards. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Mitch just drinks some more whiskey in lieu of responding. 

Arlington clears his throat awkwardly and gently takes Mitch's ankle in his hands, looking over the wound. “It definitely looks sprained.”

Mitch groans, rolling his eyes. “I figured, it hurts like a bitch,” he replies and takes another swig of the whiskey. Arlington dabs the cut with some sterile cloths from a first aid kit and says, “I don't think you should walk around much for the next few days, it really needs time to heal.”

Mitch makes a face and says, “I can't stay in one place for more than a night, you should know that by now.”

The man sighs and Mitch can tell he's holding back from rolling his eyes as he says, “I _know_ that, but you can't go around limping on a half sprained ankle. It's not like you would get very far anyway.” He grabs a tube of ointment from the kit and reads the back of it before he uses some of the vodka to wash his hands, getting rid of the bacteria on them, and he says, “Why don't we stay here tonight and then figure something out for tomorrow?”

Mitch stares at him, convinced that he didn't just hear that, and says, “I'm spending the night here but I'm leaving first thing in the morning,” making sure to emphasize the fact that he has no plans of leaving with a buddy tomorrow.

Arlington sighs again and says, “You literally can't walk, do you really think you'll make it a mile away from here in the state you're in?”

“Did you find any bandages?” Mitch asks, ignoring Arlington’s question completely. The blond rolls his eyes, but reaches into the first aid kit for a roll of bandages - it’s small, but it’s enough - and he gently takes Mitch’s ankle into his hand. Mitch hisses a little but is otherwise quiet as Arlington tends to his leg, sipping at the whiskey.

When he finishes wrapping it up, he reaches for Mitch’s whiskey and takes a nice, long sip similar to the way he had - except Arlington spits his out a moment later, gagging and grimacing. Mitch is torn between laughing at him and berating him for wasting alcohol. “How can you drink this shit?” the blond asks. “It tastes awful.”

“Gets the job done,” Mitch mumbles, smiling a little and he isn’t sure if it’s because the alcohol is already starting to do its job or because Arlington is pretty damn amusing. He hopes it’s the alcohol, that’d be easier to explain. 

Arlington makes a face but he takes another sip, this time keeping it in his mouth and swallowing it and Mitch reaches out to pat his shoulder, saying, “Atta boy.”

The man rolls his eyes but Mitch can tell he's trying to hide a smirk as he looks around their home for the night. The room is dusty and a mess but it's cozy enough, Mitch thinks. 

Arlington says, “At least we found a safe place for the night,” and Mitch watches as he rummages through his massive duffel bag and pulls out ropes and wires. He frowns but doesn't say anything as Blondie walks around the room, wrapping ropes around the doorknob and using the wires to secure the windows shut. 

Mitch watches him for a few moments, mesmerized with the way Arlington moves around the room, not stopping or pausing for even a second. He moves with the gracefulness of someone who knows exactly what they have to do, someone on a mission. He doesn’t waste any time at all, making sure that the room is secure and safe for the two of them tonight - being asleep is your greatest weakness, above all. Whether it’s for half an hour or eight hours, as soon as you close your eyes, your fate is out of your hands and anything can happen. And seeing him set up traps by the windows and doors lets Mitch know that he’s all too aware of that little tidbit. 

For a brief second, Mitch wonders if he’s doing all of this from experience, but he quickly pushes that thought out of his mind. Partly because things have gone to shit for months now and everyone has seen some things; partly because he doesn’t want to know about Arlington’s dark past. It’s none of his business, anyway. 

“Are you like this everywhere you go?” Mitch asks him, breaking the silence - and taking a moment to shut his mind up when he starts thinking about Arlington’s biceps and the way he flexes when he reaches for something.

The man looks over at Mitch and shrugs a little, setting up a noise trap near the door, jamming a chair under the doorknob with various items on top. “I think we all have to be like this now, don't we?” he answers.

Mitch nods slowly, looking down at the bottle in his hands. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” he agrees softly. He feels a bit useless just sitting here while Arlington does all of the work, but he doesn't have much of a choice. The excitement of the day is starting to drain his energy slowly and he feels his eyelids start to droop, thankful for the booze because it's helping dull the pain a bit.

Arlington starts setting up two makeshift beds on the floor, using some torn up comforters and sleeping bags he carries in his truck. Mitch can't believe his eyes because he's been sleeping on chairs or just the hard floor for weeks now - it's not worth carrying all of that luggage around.

“You must be tired,” the man says and Mitch jumps a little, snapping out of his thoughts once again. Arlington smiles a little, extending his hand to Mitch and Mitch blushes when he takes it because there's no way he can make it onto the floor by himself. 

It's a bit of a struggle to say the least but he makes it down there, cringing and trying not to make noise when his leg is moved the wrong way. “I'm not tired,” he says, lying through his teeth, “I'm fine.”

Arlington rolls his eyes and reaches over to the desk to open another bottle of booze. “Then just _lay_ there,” he tells him. “You’ve had a day from hell, I think you could definitely benefit from a little rest.”

Mitch stares at him for a moment, confused. If it were anyone else, he certainly would not be here by now - anyone else would’ve killed him, taken his things, and driven off without a second thought. No one else would be making sure his injured leg was taken care of, that he had been drinking enough water, that he had alcohol to drink, that he was resting after a “day from hell.” And truth be told, Mitch thought that was _normal_ ; it’s the end of the world, for fuck’s sake - there isn’t time to make friends. There’s no _need_ for friends. At the end of the day, the only person you can rely on is yourself, the only person you need to take care of is yourself.

So why is this guy going out of his way to make sure that Mitch is alright? Why does he care so much? 

“Why are you doing this?” he blurts out.

Arlington looks confused, glancing around the room and at the bottle of alcohol in his hand. “Why am I doing what?” he asks. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Mitch asks. “Why are you taking care of me? You don’t even know my name.”

The blond just stares at him for a moment before shrugging and saying, “You needed help, so I helped you.” Mitch expects him to say something else, give some sort of excuse, but the man just takes another swig from the bottle he's holding.

“There has to be more than that,” Mitch says softly, staring at him.

Arlington frowns, sitting down on his own makeshift bed and getting comfortable - well, as comfortable as he can, anyway. He looks at Mitch and says, “What kind of person would I be if I just left you there to die?”

“A normal one,” Mitch replies. He watches as Arlington frowns again and it makes him uncomfortable, a sick feeling curling in his stomach.

“I guess I'm not very normal, then,” the man replies a moment later. Mitch shakes his head, not able to understand how this guy is still able to think this way. The world is over, as far as Mitch is concerned, so why should he care about anyone else?

He lays down on the uncomfortable bed and squeezes his eyes shut. “I'm going to bed,” he says quietly, hoping that Blondie will just disappear through the night so he doesn't have to deal with him in the morning.

The room is quiet for a few minutes and Mitch starts to relax slowly, when he hears, “My name’s Scott, by the way. Just in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Mitch says immediately, his eyes opening and his body tensing, and Arlington's - _Scott’s_ \- face falls a little as he looks down at the bottle in his hands. Mitch's cheeks start to burn and he closes his eyes again, feeling a nervous tremor go through his body.

Moments later, he hears Scott murmur a quiet, “Goodnight,” and Mitch suddenly feels terrible, because he knows this guy put his life at risk to make sure Mitch was alright and had a place to sleep tonight.

His stomach aches and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing this feeling to go away and when it just gets worse and eats away at him, he whispers, “My name is Mitch.”

He falls asleep wondering if the tables were turned, if it was Scott on the floor of that grocery store, if he would have put his life on the line and done the same thing.


	4. i raise my flag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And out of the corner of his eye, Scott can see Mitch crack a smile. A thank you and a smile all within the span of five minutes. 
> 
> This man is full of surprises, Scott’s come to realize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because a sunday isn’t complete without a CMH update tbh. hope you all enjoy this one!!
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au. 
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include:** _no warnings for this chapter!!_
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Scott lies awake until he hears Mitch’s steady breathing, letting him know that he’s fallen asleep, and he sits up as quietly as he can, reaching for the lantern and turning it on. Instantly, the room is illuminated with a dull orange glow but it’s enough to make the tension in Scott’s chest _finally_ melt away. He’s never liked the dark, a childhood fear of his that’s stuck with him through adulthood and only made worse since the apocalypse began. It’s silly - he knows that - and the slightest bit irrational, and mostly dumb because he’s a grown man whose anxiety wraps itself around his entire body as soon as the lights go out. And he supposes that in the grand scheme of things right now, the last thing he needs to be worrying about is finding a way to sleep with the lights on.

Yet here he is, exhaling slowly and closing his eyes for a moment to remind himself to relax, then opening them and smiling a little at finally being able to see again. The lantern offers a small source of light, but it’s better than nothing in this small, dusty office. He moves the lantern and places it by the head of his makeshift bed, lying down next to it, breathing a little easier now. 

He lies on his back, suddenly restless, and he turns his head to the side, looking over at Mitch. The smaller man lies curled into himself, arms wrapped around his middle and knees brought up just slightly. He looks so small, so innocent. So peaceful. So _beautiful_. He’s like a ray of light in the midst of all this darkness, despite the fact that there seems to be a raincloud over his head wherever he goes. There’s just something about him, something that Scott can’t put his finger on, and he drifts off to sleep trying to figure it out.

* * *

Scott awakes after the sun rises, sunlight streaming through the barricaded windows and shining on his face, making him stir. He groans softly, rolling over onto his back and stretching; his back cracks and Scott winces at the slight pain that shoots up his spine. 

He’s barely awake, but he knows he can’t waste the day sleeping anymore. He used to be able to; he misses those days, the days when he could wake up and then immediately roll over and fall back asleep. He misses the feeling of tight arms wrapped around his waist and soft lips pressed to the back of his neck, waking him up every morning but lulling him back to sleep only a few minutes later. 

His chest suddenly aches with the pain of remembering things he doesn’t want to, and he pushes those thoughts out of his mind as he sits up. Luckily for him, he finds that now has something new to focus on: Mitch is gone. 

He sits up quickly, looking around the room with panicked eyes. His first thought is that someone took him - that Mitch is being tortured or taken away to be a hostage, something awful among those lines. He's heard of horror stories that he can't bear to repeat. But he sees the open door, the chair that was shoved under the doorknob moved to the side with all the items set gently on top and he knows immediately where the boy has gone.

Scott gets up and grabs his gun, because he can never be too careful, and he leaves the room so he can reach the stairs. He stops immediately at the top at the sight before him.

Mitch is clinging to the railing of the stairs with both hands, his small body shaking at the effort to keep himself up. Scott watches for a second, baffled, as Mitch hops down one more step, barely able to put pressure on his hurt ankle.

He clears his throat, leaning on the rail at the top of the stairs as he says, “I have the keys in my pocket, y'know.”

The younger boy tenses at the sound of his voice and he freezes his movements, his arms still shaking at the strain and he swears under his breath. Scott waits patiently for Mitch to look over his shoulder at him and he says, “I'll hotwire it.”

Scott nearly smiles, knowing the boy won't stand a chance against him in this position, and he says softly, “You aren't taking my truck, Mitch. Let me get my stuff ready and we'll leave together, alright?”

“I don’t _want_ to go together,” Mitch snaps, and Scott raises his eyebrow. “I want to go alone - just leave me alone already.”

“If I left you alone yesterday, you’d be dead,” Scott reminds him, and Mitch just groans, slumping down on the steps to sit. He drops his head, holding it in his hands, and Scott can hear the soft mutterings of, “I can’t fucking believe this,” and he feels bad for the guy - again. 

He walks down the steps to where Mitch is sitting and sits down next to him. “Look,” he sighs. “I know this sucks, and I know you don’t like me, and I know you’d rather lose your leg than spend anymore time with me -”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mitch mumbles, and Scott smiles a little.

“But,” he continues. “It isn’t safe for you to be by yourself, not in this condition. You _know_ this, Mitch, you aren’t dumb. As much as you hate to hear it, you know you wouldn’t survive out there when you can barely walk - you’d be zombie dinner in an instant.”

Mitch runs his fingers through his messy hair and shakes his head in disbelief. “I can't believe this,” he repeats softly, his eyes closed and Scott needs to stop himself from pulling the boy into a hug.

He sighs and stands up, looking around the store to see if there are any discrepancies from last night. “You wanna sit here and guard the stairs while I get our things ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” Mitch murmurs and Scott smiles a little, walking back up the stairs.

* * *

The car ride is fairly quiet for the most part, and Scott has to bite his cheek so he doesn't smile at Mitch because he looks like a little kid with his arms crossed and a pout on his face. He wasn't happy with Scott's decision to leave to say the least, but the boy didn't have a choice and he blushed all the way to the car while Scott helped him there.

It was, in a way, sweet. Or it was until Mitch told him to “fuck off” when Scott offered to help seatbelt him in, but Scott doesn’t blame him; he _was_ being pretty patronizing. 

Mitch sighs, breaking their awkward silence to ask, “Where are we even going, anyway?”

Scott tenses, biting his bottom lip and trying to think of a quick excuse, but all he can come up with is, “Don't worry about it, okay? I know what I'm doing.” He hopes that Mitch will just drop it, but of course, that would be too good to be true.

“What?” Mitch asks, his eyebrow raised. “I need to know where you're taking me.”

Scott clenches his jaw. He knows exactly where he's going - well, not _exactly_ , but he has the directions practically memorized by this point, and he knows they're only a few hours away. He doesn't want to talk about it, though - hell, it's his truck, he has the right to go wherever he wants without giving Mitch any satisfaction.

But instead of being rude, he says, “There's just somewhere I need to go, okay? Relax, I'm not taking you to your death or anything.”

He can practically feel the heat of Mitch's glare as the boy replies, dryly, “How am I supposed to know that?”

Scott looks at him, his hands still on the wheel, and says, “In all of the time that I've known you, have I given you _one_ reason to think that you can't trust me?”

Mitch immediately rolls his eyes, because he's so dramatic, Scott has come to realize, and he says, “I've known you for an entire day, that's not enough time to _really_ know somebody.”

The blond smirks, shrugging one shoulder. “Touche. But you have to admit, I have a point,” he replies, hoping the subject will be dropped.

Mitch sighs and Scott swears he can _hear_ the eyeroll in his voice. “Where do you need to go that is so important?” he asks, crossing his arms again.

Scott clenches his jaw a little and rolls his shoulders. “There's just something I need to do, okay?” he says quietly.

“What is there left to do?” Mitch asks immediately, staring intently at Scott. 

He can feel his cheeks start to warm up in a blush but regardless, he groans a little, because Mitch has yet to get the hint that he wants the subject dropped, and says, “You wouldn't understand.”

“Try me,” Mitch says, his voice rising a bit, When Scott doesn’t reply right away, Mitch goes on to say, “What is there left to do, in LA of all places, anyway? Everything has been trashed, trust me, I checked.”

Scott's fingers tighten around the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. “Maybe not _everything_...” he murmurs, feeling the anger build inside him. His chest feels so tight it starts to ache.

Mitch shakes his head, baffled at Scott's replies, and says, “LA was one of the first places to go down. The fact that we even _found_ that first aid kit yesterday was sheer luck, don't you understand - ?”

“Shut _up_!” Scott snaps. “I get it, okay? I _get_ it,” he says, his voice rising, and he squeezes the steering wheel again, his face much hotter than before.

Mitch is quiet for a few seconds, alarmed by the change in Scott's voice, and he says, “I just don't want you to get your hopes up,” quietly.

Scott falls silent for a moment, biting his lip and exhaling slowly through his nose as he tries to calm down. He’s still gripping the steering wheel a bit too tight, his knuckles have gone white now, and he has to will himself to relax because he’s so wound up. But Mitch’s little voice brings him back and he rolls his shoulders back, willing some of the tension away, and he sighs a little. “I just,” he hesitates briefly. “I just need to see for myself, okay?” And then he mumbles to himself, “I told you you wouldn’t understand.”

Mitch doesn’t say anything and Scott glances over at him. “I’m sorry,” he says, not because he should apologize, but because Mitch just looks so _hurt_ \- the kind of hurt where you’re trying not to look like your feelings have been hurt - and Scott is already beginning to feel guilty for shouting at him like that. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Mitch’s shoulders rise and fall, and he quietly murmurs, “It’s nothing I’m not used to.”

Scott grimaces; he feels awful now, even more if that were possible. He whispers, “I’m sorry,” and Mitch just rolls his eyes in response. It shouldn’t surprise him, especially since literally all Mitch does is roll his eyes at everything he says, but Scott is just the slightest bit startled at his reaction. 

“You don’t need to apologize for every little thing, you know,” he says and Scott can tell he’s trying to sound tough like he normally does, like he doesn’t care about anything and that nothing bothers him. But he’s bothered, even if it’s just a little bit.

“There isn’t really time to be sorry anymore,” he continues, “In the grand scheme of things, apologizing isn't even important. And it’s not like saying ‘sorry’ is going to erase what you said.”

Scott doesn’t say anything for a moment, mostly because he can’t even fathom how one person can be _that_ jaded. In a way, he does see where Mitch is coming from - the world has ended and almost everyone has been killed or turned into a zombie, so some things just don’t matter anymore. But at the same time, Scott can’t help but to believe that some things _do_ , and saying sorry when he’s fucked up is one of them. 

“I’m apologizing because I hurt your feelings,” he explains to him and before Mitch can protest and insist that he doesn’t have feelings, Scott continues, “And I know it won’t erase what I did or said, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about it.” He glances over at Mitch one more time and when he doesn’t say anything, Scott quietly adds, “Just because things are different now, why should that mean I need to stop caring about who I hurt?” 

Mitch huffs out something that sounds like a bitter - a very bitter - laugh. “God, you’re so fucking naivë,” he mutters and Scott frowns a little. “Who the hell cares, Scott?” he asks, “Things like feelings and who hurt who don’t matter anymore. Who cares if you yelled at me when there are flesh eating zombies roaming around?”

He looks out the window and shakes his head again before he says, quietly, “You need to toughen up, y'know. Being sensitive isn't going to get you anywhere in this world, not anymore.”

Scott rolls his eyes, letting out a groan. “Thanks, dad,” he murmurs, speeding up the car before he says, “Mitch, you're not a zombie. You're a human being, you have a beating heart and a soul, so I'm sorry if I don't get off on hurting people the way you do.”

He shifts in his seat and interrupts Mitch before he can start complaining again. “I survived this long by not changing a single thing about myself, and I don't see why I should change just because you don't agree with how I live my life.”

Mitch rolls his eyes _again_ , and Scott wishes he would stop because Mitch has such pretty chocolatey brown eyes and if he doesn’t stop rolling them every five minutes, they’re going to roll right out of his head. “God, you’re so dramatic,” he mutters and Scott has to bite back a laugh. A drama queen like Mitch is calling _him_ dramatic? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. 

“I don’t care how you see the world, Scott,” Mitch continues, his tone angry. Scott glances at him out of the corner of his eye. His face is red around the edges, his eyes dark. Scott’s never seen him so irritated before. No, that’s a lie; Mitch gets this irritated about three times a day. “If you want to keep being sad over the little things, that isn’t my problem.”

Scott huffs a breath of annoyance and mutters softly, “God, who the hell broke your heart?”

Mitch’s head turns to look at him so fast, Scott is sure he gave himself whiplash. Through clenched teeth he says, “Who told you to stay the same as before no matter the circumstance?” Tension courses through his whole body, Scott can tell; he’s sitting with his shoulders bunched together, his whole body is rigid, his jaw set. 

Scott sighs again. He and Mitch could go in circles like this for hours, and for what? No good is going to come out of it at all, and to be honest, Scott doesn’t have the energy to keep up with Mitch. “Do you ever get tired of fighting with me on every single thing I say? Can’t you just accept the fact that I’m not like you?” he asks him. After a moment of thought, he adds, “And maybe that’s a good thing, seeing as I saved your life. Twice.”

Mitch's jaw tenses and he releases an annoyed sigh, saying, “I can save my own life, thank you. It just so happens that I got hurt tripping on _your_ wire, in case you're forgetting.”

“Yeah, my well thought out and _perfect_ zombie trap that you didn't pay attention to," Scott replies immediately and the car is quiet for a few seconds, the tension so thick it can be cut with a knife and he rolls back his shoulders, trying to relax. 

Mitch still has his arms crossed, his face stuck in a frustrated frown and Scott glances at him, taking in his small figure and messed up ankle. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

“If you really can't stand me, you can leave, you know,” Scott says quietly, returning his eyes to the road. He's so tired of fighting, so tired of putting up excuses. “I'm only trying to help,” he continues, preparing himself to pull the car over so Mitch can waddle away if he so wishes.

The car is so silent that Scott nearly repeats what he said, convinced the boy didn't hear him, when he hears a soft, “Why do you want to help me so badly?”

Scott looks over at him, surprised at his quiet tone of his voice. Mitch's cheeks are red as he plays with his hands and dirty shirt, refusing to look up at Scott, and Scott bites back a smile because he looks damn adorable when he's embarrassed.

“Because you need me,” he replies softly, noticing that Mitch shifts in his seat when he says that, “And you may be annoying but you haven't given me a reason not to help you... So why wouldn't I?”

There is a second long pause before Mitch says, “I'm not going to fuck you, you know,” and Scott nearly swerves off the road from complete shock.

“ _What?_ ” Scott says immediately, turning to look at him so fast his neck nearly cramps. “Why would you even say that?” he asks, his eyes wide and face warming up.

Mitch just shrugs like this is a daily conversation for him - and maybe it is. For Scott, however, there’s nothing average about it. “Just in case you thought you were gonna get lucky, or something,” he replies, “I don't care that you saved my life, I'm not fucking you.”

He wishes Mitch would stop saying that. Scott's face is burning like he's been near a stove and he swallows hard before he says, “Mitch, I have literally no intention of fucking you. That hasn't even crossed my mind until now.”

Mitch glances over at Scott quickly, his jaw dropped a little as he says, “Wait, you haven't…” he trails off a bit then blurts out, “ _Really?_ ” like he's absolutely surprised and Scott is pretty sure he's purple by now, the heat in the car suddenly overwhelming him.

“Wait, _what?_ ” he stutters, glancing over at the boy and looking straight ahead again when he realizes Mitch is staring right at him. “Why - Why would I? Did you really think I was just waiting for you to offer it up or something?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mumbles, but Scott can hear him clear as day and his eyes widen. But Mitch just shrugs again, nonchalant - though his cheeks are starting to get a little rosy - and says, “Well, can you blame me? You had no other reason to help me...” he trails off. 

Scott is so baffled that he slows the car down just to look at Mitch, hoping the look on his face is enough to express the confusion and surprise he's feeling, and it clearly is because Mitch's face turns into a dark shade of red and he blurts out, “I don't know why else you would be so nice to me, okay?”

Scott frowns a little, suddenly feeling bad, and he says as sincerely as he can, “I - I just genuinely wanted to help you, Mitch. I don't know why it's so hard for you to believe, but this isn't some thought out plan to get into your pants.”

To Scott’s surprise, Mitch still looks a bit baffled, and the brunet looks down at his lap and mutters softly, “People just aren’t nice to me like that, okay?” 

Scott feels his mouth fall open in a reply, but he bites it back at the last second. He figures that Mitch has his struggles, like everyone does, and he has to stop himself from asking, _Who? Who wasn't nice to you, Mitch?_ because he knows that the boy wouldn't tell him and he doesn't want to push his luck. Plus, Scott knows if it were the other way around, he may not want Mitch to know about his struggles either. Everyone is entitled to their secrets.

He swallows down his curiosity and says quietly, “Well I am, okay?” and when Mitch doesn't relax against his seat, Scott smiles and says, “I'm sorry I don't want to fuck you, though. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.”

That does it, and Mitch's mouth curls into a small smile, his cheeks turning into a nice shade of red. “Shut the hell up,” he replies and to Scott's surprise, he continues, “You would be _lucky_ to have sex with me.”

Scott tries his very best not to think about it - Mitch's small body against his, the way the boy would probably whimper and whine against his mouth because he's so damn loud and they have to be quiet, his fingers squeezing Mitch's hips until they bruise - and he doesn't succeed, his face warming up once more. 

“Yeah?” he says back, his voice a bit quieter than he intended, “I could say the same to you.”

Mitch shifts in his seat and Scott doesn't have to look at him to know that he's embarrassed because he clears his throat and says, “ _Anyway_ ,” before he opens the glove box in front of him. “Let's see what we have here, shall we?” Mitch says in a teasing voice, rummaging through his things and trying to change the subject.

Normally, Scott would get Mitch's hands off of his car immediately, because he can't remember the last time he opened that glove box except to hide a flashlight or two, so who knows that the hell could be in there? But the world isn't normal anymore and he would rather Mitch find something embarrassing than continue this conversation, because the car can't get any hotter at this point and the AC is practically busted.

“God, do you ever _clean_?” Mitch mutters, taking random things out of the compartment and giving them quick glances before shoving them back in and Scott murmurs, “Well you're clearly not helping the mess,” when Mitch gasps, a smile breaking onto his face.

“Oh God,” Scott groans, imagining the absolute worst, “What did you find? I don't even know what's in there,” he tries to defend himself, hoping that it's not the roll of condoms he stashed away weeks ago, because who knows? Sure the world has ended but that doesn't mean some people don't have needs anymore. 

To Scott's surprise, Mitch pulls out a black CD case with just one word on the cover, and Scott's mouth falls open.

“Oh! Put it back!” he says, reaching for it and Mitch distances his hand away just enough so it's out of Scott's reach and he teases, “Why do you still have your Beyonce CD stashed away in here?”

Scott's face turns bright red, he's sure of it, because Mitch starts giggling and he says, “Aw! Were you totally a part of the BeyHive, Scotty?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Scott groans, covering his face with the hand that's not on the wheel and Mitch laughs, clearly loving that Scott is blushing so hard.

“There's nothing to be ashamed of, she will always be the queen,” Mitch says, opening the case and looking through the booklet before he frowns and says, “I mean, unless she's a zombie now.”

“Don't _say_ that," Scott groans, and Mitch giggles some more before he asks, “Does your radio even work anymore?”

Scott shakes his head, glancing at his busted car dashboard. “I can't remember the last time I saw a functioning CD player.”

“Then why do you keep it?” Mitch asks, and it doesn't seem like he's teasing anymore but Scott still doesn't want to answer his question. Clearly Mitch has no problems letting go of the past and that's clear by the small backpack he carries on his shoulders with nothing but necessities, while Scott has an entire truck packed to the brim with memories of Before, and Scott just isn't interested in starting another fight.

“You should eat something”" he says instead, reaching behind him to grab a bag of food he recently managed to steal, “You might still be weak from the blood loss.”

Mitch rolls his eyes but he puts the CD away and accepts the bag, muttering, “Thanks, dad.” Mitch reaches into the bag and pulls out something that looks like a sandwich but it doesn’t exactly smell like one, and even Scott grimaces when he sees it. He feels bad; he’s gotten used to surviving on the bare minimum but Mitch needs to build up his strength if he wants to starve off an infection because of his bad leg. 

Scott sighs a little to himself. He’s not going to regret this, per say, but there’s a little nagging voice in the back of his mind that thinks he might. Still, he reaches under the driver’s seat for a small, plastic bag, and he takes the rank sandwich from Mitch and tosses it out of the window. Mitch looks at him, confused but curious, and he slowly opens the plastic bag, his jaw dropping when he sees what’s inside. 

A bag of chips. An _unopened_ bag of chips.

It’s a small bag, one of those snack-pack sizes for kids’ lunches, and Mitch looks like he could cry when he sees it. He looks at Scott, his jaw dropped and he struggles to say something for a few moments before Scott says, “I found them not too long ago - raided a CVS and pretty much took whatever I could find. They’ve never been opened so I figured they can’t be too bad.”

“You’ve just been hoarding chips?” Mitch asks, partially in disbelief, partially… impressed?

“Well, not really. That’s my last bag,” Scott admits. “But I want you to have it; you need real food, and until we can actually stop and find something to eat that actually look and smells like food, you can have that.” Mitch looks as though he’s about to protest and Scott quickly adds, “Plus, the last thing I need is you passing out in my truck.”

Mitch looks down at the chips then glances over at Scott and softly says, “Thank you.” Scott nearly crashes because he’s never heard Mitch say that to him before. But he doesn’t make a big deal out of it - why ruin what seems to be a nice moment between the two of them? - and instead, Scott just smiles a little at him. 

Mitch opens the bag, practically groaning when he sees the chips and Scott has to bite back a laugh. The brunet sighs heavily when he first starts eating, and Scott expects him to inhale the entire bag but he surprises Scott by extending the bag and offering him some chips.

At first Scott goes to protest, but Mitch is insistent and he finally takes a few chips from the bag, telling Mitch, “Thank you,” with his mouth full, spraying chips everywhere. And out of the corner of his eye, Scott can see Mitch crack a smile. A _thank you_ and a smile all within the span of five minutes. 

This man is full of surprises, Scott’s come to realize.


	5. ash and dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Scott,” he says, much louder this time, “Where the fuck are we?” His voice damn near cracks but he can barely hear himself over his heart pounding in his chest, the rapid beats filling his eardrums and making everything around him sound muffled. 
> 
> Scott glances at him, eyebrows furrowed together with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Mitch feels like he could throw up as he frantically looks around, the green blur of trees suddenly looking a bit more familiar than they did a moment ago. If he looks hard enough, he swears he can see the large, fat oak with the letter ‘M’ carved in it atop another letter that makes the bile in his stomach rise to his throat. The memory of his back pressed up against that tree, giggles between kisses and teeth scraping against his bottom lip flashes in his mind. It makes him want to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh sorry for taking ages to update!! we’ve both been super busy and health wise we’ve both had a bit of problems, but nevermind that - we’re back!!! here’s a nice lil update for everyones enjoyment :) hope you guys like it! we’re building up on the angst and getting to know a little bit more about mitchy, so now is the perfect time to start tuning in if you haven’t yet B)
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au. 
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include:** _(brief) suicidal thoughts_
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Sunlight burns against his eyelids and Mitch winces, groaning softly to himself as he shifts around a bit in his seat. It takes him a moment to get a grip on his surroundings, to remember that he’s in Scott’s truck and that the two of them are driving to wherever the hell Scott is taking them. The fact that he _still_ doesn’t know where the two of them are going is making him crazy, but at the moment, he feels almost good.

 _Almost_. Mitch’s neck is stiff and his entire back hurts, but he can’t deny that he just had the best sleep he’s had in a _long_ time just now. He sighs a little, eyes still closed as he tries to wake himself up with minimal effort. It’s not often that he actually gets to just lie - or in this case, sit in a very slumped and vaguely uncomfortable position - and just rest. His brain still feels fuzzy, so he doesn’t have to endure any god awful thinking for a few minutes, and he just allows himself to rest for a moment. And it’s nice. He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t thinking _and_ able to properly rest. 

He sighs again, bringing his hands up to rub his eyes and he yawns softly, arching his back to stretch a little and wincing in pain when he accidentally jostles his ankle. He really needs it to heal already; he can’t afford to be completely off his feet for another day. 

Not to mention, he really doesn’t want Scott carrying him around anymore. Sure, it’s not the _worst_ thing that’s come out of him hurting his leg, but it’s still pretty awkward. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Scott says jokingly and Mitch tries to fight the smile working its way to his face. “Did you sleep okay?” 

Mitch nods slowly, still not really awake, and he sits up a little straighter in his seat. “Fine,” he mumbles. “How long was I out for?” he asks.

Scott shrugs a little. “I don’t think too long - maybe an hour or so?” he replies. 

Mitch glances over at Scott. The blond has been driving for hours to god knows where, and Mitch has no idea how much longer he’s going to be driving for. “Do you wanna rest?” he blurts out before he can stop himself. He feels a weird twinge in his chest when he thinks about how tired Scott must be, and how he just fell asleep next to him. “I can drive for a little while, if you’d like?”

Scott smiles. “I appreciate that,” he replies. “But it’s fine; we’re almost there, and I want you to rest your ankle. It’s not going to heal if you don’t let it.”

Mitch rolls his eyes because even if he doesn’t mean it, Scott always manages to sound so damn condescending. His ankle is hurt, but he’s not a baby. He doesn’t need taking care of. “I have another leg, you know,” he grumbles, insistent on proving to Scott that he isn’t completely useless. 

“I know,” Scott says. “But you still can’t drive; you don’t even know where we’re going.”

“So tell me,” Mitch replies with a shrug. 

Scott smirks a little. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” he asks and Mitch rolls his eyes again. Condescending as fuck and annoying as fuck. He’s lucky he’s so hot or Mitch might be tempted to break his neck. 

“Just trust me, okay?” Scott tells him, but he doesn’t. Mitch doesn’t trust him at all - and why should he? He barely knows him. And in all honesty, it doesn’t matter to him if he did save his life; when it comes down to it, the only person Mitch can trust is himself. Call him harsh but this is the only way he knows for sure that he won’t get hurt again. 

Mitch looks out of the window and takes in the view. He hasn't been in a moving car in a very long time and he almost smiles when he sees the green blur of the trees they're driving past. It's interesting that while the world has gone to shit, nature is still thriving and he might even dare to say beautiful; he has seen grass grow through abandoned buildings and a mess of weeds wherever he walks. 

His view of the trees is blocked by a massive town sign - it's half destroyed, with painted words on it saying DO NOT ENTER as a way of scaring away newcomers - but Mitch would recognize that sign anywhere.

His eyes widen almost comically, he's sure, and his breath hitches, his body locking. “Scott,” Mitch says, his voice breathless, “Where the hell are we?”

Scott barely listens to him, answering with a quiet, “Hmm?” And Mitch sits up straight, turning his body to look through all the windows of the car even if it jostles his hurt ankle, and he recognizes those bushes - remembers walking by them every morning, every other night when he was happy and drunk without a care in the world - and he can't catch his breath suddenly.

“Scott,” he says, much louder this time, “Where the _fuck_ are we?” His voice damn near cracks but he can barely hear himself over his heart pounding in his chest, the rapid beats filling his eardrums and making everything around him sound muffled. 

Scott glances at him, eyebrows furrowed together with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Mitch feels like he could throw up as he frantically looks around, the green blur of trees suddenly looking a bit more familiar than they did a moment ago. 

If he looks hard enough, he swears he can see the large, fat oak with the letter ‘M’ carved in it atop another letter that makes the bile in his stomach rise to his throat. The memory of his back pressed up against that tree, giggles between kisses and teeth scraping against his bottom lip flashes in his mind. It makes him want to cry. 

“You look kind of pale,” Scott says slowly. He reaches out to place a hand on Mitch’s knee and he flinches away as if he’s been burnt. His heart continues to beat faster and he can’t will it to slow down. His entire body breaking out in a cold sweat. They drive past houses, the buildings looking like unidentifiable blurs to Mitch’s eyes but he knows _exactly_ where they are. And god, he wishes he didn’t. 

“Mitch,” Scott says again, raising his voice, trying to be heard over the noise in Mitch’s head. “Mitch, talk to me. Are you okay?”

“Why,” he says slowly, venom dripping from his lips. His entire body has gone rigid, but he’s shaking from head to toe and he can’t stop. “The fuck are we here?” 

Scott seems startled by the sudden change in tone, by how angry he is but he can’t help it. He’s so fucking _angry_ that he’s back here, he never thought he’d have to see this place again - he never _wanted_ to see this place again. When he left, he left for good. Of course Scott didn’t know that; how could he? Logically, Mitch knows that. But he can’t stop shaking, and he feels like he’s going to throw up, and everything is so familiar, and he just wants to cry and he hates feeling so weak. He hates that this place makes him so weak. 

“Turn around,” he says. Part of him is tempted to grab the wheel and turn this truck around himself.

“Mitch -”

“There’s nothing here worth seeing so just turn around!” he snaps. When Scott doesn’t say anything, Mitch looks at him and says, “I’m serious, Scott! Turn around!”

Scott stares at him with wide eyes and says, “I'm not turning around until you tell me -”

Mitch slams his hands on the dashboard of the car and yells, “Why can't you just listen to me for once? I can't be here, okay, I can't -”

“I _need_ to be here,” Scott replies and Mitch freezes, glaring at him. He watches as Scott keeps driving and the man has his jaw clenched, the frustration clearly coursing through him. “I came to LA all the way from fucking Texas to be here, I can't leave -”

“You _can_ leave!’ Mitch yells, turning in his seat and nearly reaching for the wheel. He sounds hysterical, he knows this. “It's your car, just turn it around!”

“You're right, Mitch, it's _my_ car,” he argues and if Mitch was a cartoon, he's sure there would be smoke puffing out of his ears. Scott turns into the parking lot and Mitch squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that he's dreaming and that maybe, just maybe, they're not actually where they are.

But there it is. The various buildings, the fountain that used to release streams of water in the middle of campus, which is completely dried out now. If money was worth anything nowadays, Mitch would probably scour the dried out bottom of the fountain and scoop up all the quarters he threw in there, making wishes of better days, of a new life, while the love of his life squeezed his waist from the back and nuzzled his neck - 

“Oh, God,” Mitch groans and he sinks into the seat as best as he can, thinking he's going to be sick. He promised himself that he would never be back here, to never turn back on those memories and now it's all here, right in front of him, and he can't escape. He can't physically run away and the memories fly right back into his mind like they've always been there, and he swears he can taste the coffee on his lips he used to drink every morning between kisses.

He jumps when something touches his knee again and he opens his eyes to see Scott's worried, blue gaze. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft and Mitch squeezes his eyes shut again, not replying to him because he knows the car is parked and they're not leaving any time soon.

Scott sighs, leaning back on his seat and running a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry, okay?” he says, “I just. I really need to see something for myself. I don't know why you're upset and I want to help -”

“Don't worry about it,” Mitch mumbles, covering his face with both hands. “Just go.”

The car is quiet for a few seconds and Mitch doesn't dare open his eyes.

“Okay,” Scott whispers after a while, reaching for his bag in the backseat. There's the noise of rustling and a zipper being closed, the car turning off and the jingling of keys.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asks quietly and Mitch doesn't reply again, not bothering with it because he knows the car isn't going to be moving any time soon.

“Okay. I'm - I'm going to look around, alright?” Scott tells him, sounding hesitant. “I can try to find something to help you walk, if you decide to -”

“Scott,” Mitch interrupts him, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. “Fuck off.” He still doesn't’ look at him.

Mitch hears nothing but the slam of a car door before he starts to cry.

* * *

_Tears are rolling down Mitch’s face, but he doesn’t stop to wipe them away, letting them blur his vision as he trudges on. The sun has barely risen but Mitch continues on his way with nothing with a practically empty backpack over his shoulders. His arms are wrapped tightly around his middle, almost as if he’s trying to physically hold himself together. He doesn’t look back at the building he’s leaving behind. And he keeps on walking. Where to? He isn’t sure. He just knows he needs to get far, far away from this place. From LA in general. From everything and everyone that has to do with it._

_He's gotten accustomed to it, he supposes. Waking up every day with a group of people he could trust, always having someone to support him. Now he has no one, and the thought alone is enough to have a sob escape him, his eyes squeezed shut. He can't control the tears running down his face, his chin, his neck._

_Mitch opens his swollen eyes, mindlessly walking through the streets. He has no plan, no food, nothing to guarantee his safety except a smaller gun he stole from the group at the last second. He swears under his breath when he realizes he should have taken more from them, but deep down he knows he would feel bad._

_Bad. He knows for a fact they didn't feel bad when they murmured late last night about how they were going to ditch him in the morning. Leave him with nothing but his empty backpack and his heart full of hope, because they think they are better off without his scrawny, needy body. “He’s too small,” they said. “Too weak. He’ll just slow us down.” He chokes down another sob at the memory, and he covers his mouth with his hand, not wanting anyone or anything to hear such a pitiful sound._

_Mitch lets out a whimper, hands moving down to squeeze his own waist so tight it almost hurts. He hates himself at this moment, he realizes. He hates himself for not being good enough, for always being the one that is left, for always having to depend on someone._

_He walks until his legs absolutely ache, hours and hours of walking through the abandoned streets of Los Angeles and he hates this place. He would burn it down himself if he could. He's so thirsty he could cry again but his eyes are dry from all the crying he did hours ago. He’s never felt more pathetic than in this moment, more alone. And he feels numb as he trudges on, and he hates himself. He would do absolutely anything to end everything, end this mindless suffering right now._

_Mitch stops in his tracks when he realizes that he can. He has a loaded gun and nothing to lose. What is stopping him from ending it all right now?_

_His stomach drops at the thought and it makes his heart damn near stop right in his chest. His bag suddenly feels heavier than it did before, all but weighed down by the gun he’s been carrying with him. His legs tremble and he drops to his knees on the spot, slowly taking his bag off and bring it around in front of him. He stares at it as if he can see through the fabric at the gun resting inside._

_‘I could do it,’ he thinks. 'I could end all of this right now.'_

_Once that thought enters his mind, he can’t seem to shake it loose and his heart hammers hard in his chest. With shaking hands, he gingerly touches the zipper of his bag but he doesn’t open it. He swallows thickly, a little voice in the back of his mind whispering “do it, do it, do it now,” over and over again until he starts crying again. A tremor washes over him and he sobs because he can't bring himself to do it. His hands tremble around the bag, the thoughts running through his mind in circles until he's gasping for air, the tears making his eyes burn once more._

_“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, cradling his head in his hands as salty tears drip down his face. They were right all along; he is too weak._


	6. painted red to fit right in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “His eyes are focused forward as he walks towards the school, Mitch’s shotgun in his hands just in case, and he stares with the determination of someone who knows exactly why he’s here, who knows exactly what he has to do. And he does. And for once, Scott’s mission has nothing to do with survival, or killing zombies, or finding something to eat or somewhere safe to stay. Instead, it has everything to do with _him_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit short, but it introduces bits of scott’s backstory that we’ve been vaguely hinting at so far in the fic :’) and if i (courtney) do say so myself, one of the scenes in this chapter is my favorite in the entire fic so far so i really hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au. 
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include:** _survivor’s guilt and (brief) implied suicidal thoughts_
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Scott can’t remember the last time he felt so nervous. He’s been scared quite a bit, but that’s different - when he’s scared, it’s because he knows he’s in danger. But right now, his heart feels like it’s dropped down into his stomach and its settled there like a heavy stone, making him feel sick. His hands are shaky and sweaty but his legs carry him steadily as he walks from the truck towards the building. There’s a sign that’s fallen over to the ground and it’s rusted all around the edges, bent up as if someone’s stepped on it or tried to fold it in half. The white paint is chipped away and flaky, and the black letters have damn near faded away completely but Scott can read the sign clear as day.

University of California, Los Angeles. 

His heart slowly floats back up to his chest, but it swells up and it feels too big to fit inside of his ribcage, and he almost can’t breathe. His eyes are focused forward as he walks towards the school, Mitch’s shotgun in his hands just in case, and he stares with the determination of someone who knows exactly why he’s here, who knows exactly what he has to do. And he does. For once, Scott’s mission has nothing to do with survival, or killing zombies, or finding something to eat or somewhere safe to stay. Instead, it has everything to do with _him_.

Scott hasn’t said his name aloud for months, he hasn’t seen his face except for in his dreams. But not a day has gone by that Scott hasn’t thought about him. And it hurts. His memory hurts. 

The doors to the building are wide open in an intimidating way that takes Scott’s breath away and makes him come to a halt, questioning whether or not he really wants to do this. But then he thinks about how he came here all the way from Texas and he _knows_ that this is something he just has to do. Taking a deep and shaky breath, he continues forward, cocking Mitch’s gun just in case and holding it firm and steady in his hands. 

His heart drops as soon as he walks inside. The once colorful walls are now bleak and grey. Fliers advertising the school musical and reminders to apply for FAFSA have been shredded and now scatter the floors. The school looks like a ghost town, completely abandoned and forgotten. It hurts Scott’s heart to be back here while it’s like _this_ when he remembers it to be such a nice and happy place.

But he can’t think about that right now; he knows what he's looking for, and he needs to keep on moving forward until he reaches his goal. And it happens sooner than he expects it to, his heart nearly stilling when he sees the door. 

He remembers a whiteboard with Glinda and Elphaba drawn on it with marker and the names of the roommates written beneath the two. The whiteboard is long gone now, and the door half open, like most other doors in the building because of scavengers and he wants to cry at the thought. He has no idea what they could have taken, and now he'll never know.

Scott takes a deep breath and opens the door the rest of the way with his shoulder so he can still have his gun aimed. He tries not to let the emotion take over him as he checks every corner of the small dorm before he shuts the door. He turns around with a terrified heart and takes in the room.

It's an absolute mess. Scavengers clearly barged into the room and took whatever they could get their hands on before Scott could even try to stop them. There are two beds in the room and the sheets have been ripped off the mattress, the posters and drawings on the walls have been ripped to pieces.

Scott swallows hard and takes a few steps into the room, his breathing becoming shaky as he looks at one of the dressers and his feet are moving before he can even think about it. The drawers are destroyed to say the least, with barely a sock left behind, but on top of the dresser there are little figurines. They're dusty and some are broken but Scott could recognise them anywhere.

He smiles, picking up a little tinman in his hands and wiping the dust off of it. There are so many Dorothy figures and a dusty drawing of red slippers and he sniffles, remembering. Scott remembers being forced to watch _The Wizard of Oz_ at least a hundred times, complaining the entire time as the love of his life rambled on and on about behind the scenes facts and quoted every word.

Scott would do absolutely anything to be able to watch that movie again. He closes his eyes, bringing one of the little Dorothy figurines against his lips. “There's no place like home,” he whispers to the quiet of the room and he has to stop himself from clicking his heels.

He puts Dorothy in his pocket for safekeeping and searches through the room, convinced there must be more to see. The scavengers took all that they could and Scott opens every drawer he can, all the closets, trying to find something more.

 _There must be more,_ he thinks. _There has to be._

But the room is practically empty. Aside from the useless furniture, there isn't much to see. Scott searches until sweat starts to line his hairline and he groans, so frustrated that he slams his hands against the mattress.

“God _damn it_ ,” he swears, his eyes burning with disappointment. He groans again and flips the mattress over just because he can.

And there it is. He gasps, not believing his eyes and he grabs it quickly as if there's a chance it might disappear. He lets the mattress fall back down as he stares at it, in the middle of the room.

It's a photo. It's a little old and a little wrinkled, like it has been touched very frequently and the colors are almost starting to fade from fingerprints. Scott can't seem to catch his breath because he hasn't seen a picture of himself in months, but there he is.

It must have been an anniversary. They were never ones to take cheesy pictures like this, usually. It shows Scott with his arms wrapped around a blond boy, their smiles blinding as Scott tries to hide his face in his neck. He hears a sound and realizes that it's coming from himself, a whimpering sound he's never heard before.

Scott covers his mouth, his legs trembling as he stares at the picture. “Oh, god,” he whispers, his voice shaking and he runs his thumb over the picture over and over again, as if he can bring the moment back to life if he tries hard enough.

He doesn't notice he's crying until he chokes on a gasp, the tears running down his face. Scott lets himself sob, closing his eyes and bringing the picture against his chest. He wants to feel that warmth again. He wants to feel strong arms wrapped around his waist, the sweet kisses against his cheeks and neck and lips and hear that warm voice telling him it's going to be okay.

“Oh, baby,” Scott whimpers, his entire chest shaking.

He covers his face with his free hand, the other still clinging to the picture against his chest.

“I'm sorry,” Scott sobs, hoping that he can be heard by the one person that matters. “I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me,” he chokes, his entire body quaking from head to toe.

He finds himself down on his knees, holding the picture tight against his chest and he _sobs_. He feels like he could throw up but he can’t manage to catch his breath, and he can’t stop shaking all over. He’s never felt this way before - like he’s actually breaking down and can’t get himself together. But he supposes that makes sense, because he hasn’t been back to this place since Before everything went straight to hell.

The last time he was here, he was laying on this very mattress with a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, while he wore a freshly washed UCLA hoodie that smelled of cheap detergent and nothing else. The two of them were skin to skin, sharing body heat beneath a blanket in the dark. And lips were pressed to his neck as he sighed contently, eyes fluttering shut. And the words “I love you” were exhaled against his skin as he drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. 

He sobs harder when he remembers that, cursing his memory because now is not the time to be thinking of any of that. But, then again, when _is_ the time? Because no matter when he thinks about this place and this boy, everything hurts. He keeps on hurting over and over again, and he just can’t stop. He can’t stop thinking about him and he can’t stop remembering the things he doesn’t want to remember anymore. 

His tears fall down onto the picture and he quickly wipes them away, not wanting to ruin the photograph any more than it already is. He folds it and puts it in his back pocket, his hands still shaking - his whole body still shaking all over. He takes a shaky breath, trying to calm down, but he still feels wound up and full of raw emotion. He still feels like he could be sick. He still misses him.

Scott lets himself rest on his knees for a few more minutes, his eyes shut tight. He feels so vulnerable. He's never felt this way before emotionally, his chest aching from the pain. Whoever said that you can't physically feel love is a fucking liar. It feels like neverending flames inside your rib cage.

If someone walked into this room with a gun right now, they would have a clear shot at the back of his head. He wouldn't even get to see his killer's face and deep down, he realizes he doesn't really care.

 _Kill me_ , he thinks. _Please end this._

He deserves to die, anyway; after what he did, why should he be allowed to live? So many people have already lost their lives who didn’t deserve to, and yet here he is, still alive. Why hasn’t someone killed him already? It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. 

He quickly snaps back into reality, realizing he's clinging to the shotgun in his hands so tight that his skin has turned white. He gasps a little, setting the gun on the ground and running his fingers through his hair, trying to get a grip on himself and his surroundings again.

A shiver runs through him and he realizes he doesn't know how long he's been here. His internal clock is entirely fucked and he blinks, staring at the window in front of him and trying to get himself to stop shaking.

What Scott sees outside makes him still so fast it almost hurts. He squints his eyes, trying to make sense of what he's seeing, because that couldn't be..

But it is. There's a small boy making his way across the campus, using an uneven branch to help him with his severe limp, a gun thrown over his shoulder.

Mitch.


	7. all systems go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What if, just this once, he let his guard down and let himself feel something? Mitch chews on his bottom lip, wondering what is left of that building he used to spend so many hours in. Maybe the piano is still there, he thinks, and he feels goosebumps rising all over his arms at the thought of hearing a song again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets just pretend we didnt take a century to update!!!! (real talk tho, we really didnt mean to take so long to update but things like life and school and work and illnesses got in the way unfortunately) hopefully all of this angsty mitchy goodness + an introduction to his dramatic ass backstory will make up for that :)
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au. 
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include:** _brief anxiety mention/implied anxiety, very brief death mention, very brief smut mention._
> 
> e’re getting deeper and deeper into mitch’s past/backstory, and tbh the poor baby is so fucked up. he’s also an asshole 90% of the time in this fic tbh but we loves the drama. 
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Mitch stares out of the car window, but closes his eyes, the scene before him already engraved in his memory. He hasn’t turned to look out of Scott’s window - he did once, but as soon as he saw the UCLA sign, his heart dropped and he couldn’t give it a second glance. Instead, he kept his sights on everything out of his window, but there was nothing to see except for the vacant road and abandoned lot of land surrounding. 

He sighs quietly, finding himself missing the comfort Scott brings because being alone - and without his shotty - sets him on edge. He quickly, however, dismisses his yearning for Scott as him simply being bored. Because that’s what he is. _Bored_. 

He’s lost count of how long he’s been sitting in Scott’s car, waiting for him to come back so they can finally leave this place, but it’s been ages and he’s so fucking bored. Scott took the keys so he can’t even drive around to pass the time - it’s not like he would leave him, he just needs to do _something_ other than sit here.

He tries to doze off for a few minutes - any way to pass the time - but his mind wanders to memories from Before. It makes him tense and he tries to push them away, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. He presses so hard that he starts to see colors and he groans, letting go and opening them. He blinks and tries to clear his mind, not realizing he's humming until he feels the vibrations of it in his throat.

Mitch stills, his eyes widening a little. He can't remember the last time he sang a song or an actual note. Singing used to be his life and now here he is, struggling to hum a tune.

He bites his lip, staring at the building ahead of him and knowing exactly what's in there. He gets the sudden urge to run towards it and let all of the memories overtake him once again.

Mitch shakes his head, willing himself not to.

But what if he did? What if, just this once, he let his guard down and let himself feel something? Mitch chews on his bottom lip, wondering what is left of that building he used to spend so many hours in. Maybe the piano is still there, he thinks, and he feels goosebumps rising all over his arms at the thought of hearing a song again. His fingers itch to play those keys again. 

He clenches his fists and screws his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of feelings he thought he’d abandoned. But now that he idea is in his head he can’t get it out, and he swears under his breath, smacking his hands against the dashboard of Scott’s truck.

He looks back at the UCLA building and his chest aches because he knows he _has_ to go inside. Despite the fact that he vowed that he never would again, he knows that he can’t leave this campus without seeing foot inside of the place he once called home. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he opens the car door and sets foot on the ground - only to instantly hiss and recoil his leg, groaning in pain. He had forgotten about his bad leg. _‘Damn it,’_ he thinks, frustrated.

He looks around outside for a second until he sees a branch in the ground, not too far from the car. He rolls his eyes just at the thought of how stupid he’ll look using a walking stick - and a literal stick, nonetheless - but Scott’s not here to hold him up and he has to get inside somehow. 

Swallowing his pride, he forces himself up on his good leg so he can hop over to the branch and he leans against the bed of Scott’s truck as he picks it up and positions it under his arm. It isn’t as sturdy as he imagines it would be but it gets the job done as he slowly limps away from the truck and towards the UCLA building in front of him.

Mitch has nothing but a gun thrown over his shoulder, but he knows that his aim is good enough to kill anything coming towards him. He’d been tempted to go in after Scott, to follow him to the dorms and find out why he had wanted to come here in the first place - and mostly see _his_ old dorm room - but he doesn’t. Some things are just meant to be forgotten (like the nights he spent in his tiny bed, cramming for exams, and the celebrations of passing his test underneath those same sheets).

Instead he inches over to the old music building, gritting his teeth when his bad leg catches onto the overgrown grass occasionally, but he makes it in one piece. He opens the big oak door and leans against it for a minute, trying to catch his breath as his eyes scan the inside of the building. There are stairs leading to the band and other storage rooms, and he's suddenly thankful that the room he's looking for is on the bottom floor.

He hops inside carefully, trying to not let the nostalgia hit him too hard but it's too late. He remembers running through these doors when he was late to class, a fresh hickey on his neck being hidden by an oversized scarf. He remembers the hours and hours spent inside these practice rooms, practicing for his solos, trying to get every note right.

Mitch looks into the practice rooms through the small windows in the doors, and it makes his stomach hurt when he sees the chairs and equipment still in there. It makes him feel shaky, unsteady. Something inside of him just drops the longer he stares inside of the room, and it takes his breath away for a moment, and there’s a part of him that just wants to run far, far away from this. He can feel the anxiety coursing through his veins and all he wants is to get away from this place, from these memories, from everything.

But an ever bigger part of him wants to stay. And so he does. 

With his hand trembling, he grabs the doorknob and gives it a twist, his breath hitching when he realizes that it’s unlocked and he hesitates, deciding if he really wants to open it and let himself inside. His heart nearly stops before he even steps inside and he still can’t seem to catch his breath, his entire body trembling just the slightest bit. 

He takes a moment and closes his eyes, telling himself _get a grip, it’s not that big of a deal, don’t be such a baby_ and anger replaces his feelings of fear and sadness. Heaving a heavy sigh, he opens his eyes and pushes the door open. He tenses up so he doesn’t flinch when it hits against the wall behind it, and he limps inside. 

The room is set up just the way Mitch remembers it, and it’s eerie. Everything in here is just so in place despite the fact that everything else has fallen apart. Mitch’s heart aches at the rush of memories that have begun to attack him, and he finds himself helpless and defenseless against them, letting them ambush his mind. There’s no escaping them - everything about this room is poisoned with nostalgia, and it’s making him sick to his stomach.

He grips his makeshift cane as tight as possible, his knuckles going white and his hand shaking as he finds himself seething with rage but also drenched in pain. He shouldn’t have come back here; he didn’t _want_ to feel this way again, he didn’t _want_ to remember this place again. And now here he is, standing in the middle of the room where he had spent the past three and a half years of his life. He’s here in the room where some of the best memories of his life had been made - where he finally hit the high note in _Defying Gravity_ , where he wrote almost every single song he’d been most proud of, where he met the person he once called the love of his life. 

That last thought makes bile rise to his throat and Mitch staggers where he stands, sincerely thinking that he may throw up. Just thinking about how much he had loved _him_ and then how he had been blindsided and betrayed by the very same person makes him want to die. The hands that had once made him shiver with pleasure became the hands that took a knife and pressed the blade between his shoulders, and there’s no getting over that. 

Mitch will never be the same, and he hates that, he fucking hates that so much. He hates that he put all of his trust into someone that should not have been trusted, and even more so, he hates that he let someone break him. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen - he's always had his guard up and the moment he let it down, everything crashed around him.

Mitch clenches his jaw. He's not going to let himself go back to that. No way in Hell.

He takes a shaky breath and walks out of the room before the intensity gets to him. He wants to see one room in particular, and he's thankful that it's only a few doors away because his leg is starting to throb.

Mitch waddles over to the chorus room and opens the door, his breath rushing out of his lungs once he sees what's inside.

The bleachers are still there, that the chorus used to stand on, and he sees pictures hanging from the walls. Most of the walls have been vandalized somehow, but the most important thing in the room is still there.

The piano.

His breath hitches when he sees it and he's limping over to it before he can even think twice. The keys are still beautiful, so black and white, not as shiny because of the dust, but still so pure, so simple. Mitch runs his fingers over the top of them gently, smiling at how familiar the instrument feels under his fingertips.

He closes his eyes, breathing in slowly before he presses down on a chord he's fond of. The sound echoes throughout the room, throughout the building, it seems, and Mitch releases the air inside of him with a smile. He does it again, running down the keys this time, gently, and his mouth almost falls open, goosebumps rising on his arms. He never thought he would hear something so beautiful again, not in the midst of all this madness. 

He doesn’t even have to try to play, the music just comes to him naturally; his hands just fly across the keys and he can barely catch his breath as he plays, tears stinging his eyes when the music reaches his ears. His hands start to shake the longer he plays and his fingers slip, a harsh sound interrupting the beautiful melody, and something akin to a sob escapes his lips. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, curling his hand into a fist and he drops it down on one of the keys, the sound barely - just barely - drowning out the soft, “Mitch?” that fills the air a moment later. 

Mitch nearly jumps out of skin and he turns around so fast he nearly falls over, grabbing the edge of the piano for support, and his heart all but stops when he sees Scott standing the doorway. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps, feeling strangely betrayed in a way but he can’t quite figure out why. He brings a hand up to wipe the tear stains off his cheeks and he tries to steady his breathing, but his rapidly approaching anger soon prove his attempts to be futile.

“I - I wasn’t, like, spying on your or anything,” Scott stutters, his face going red. He can’t meet Mitch’s eyes as he speaks, probably because this is the first time he’s seen him cry. Mitch’s face burns red at the realization. “I was I just -”

“Forget it,” Mitch interrupts the blond, grabbing his makeshift cane and using it to help him limp towards the door of the room as fast as he can. “Let’s just go already.”

“Uh, actually,” Scott sutters, stepping off to the side so he’s standing in front of Mitch, blocking his exit. Mitch sighs impatiently, glancing up at Scott with annoyed eyes. The blond chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, hesitating before he utters softly, “You aren’t going to like what I have to tell you..”

“Just spit it out already,” Mitch snaps, feeling himself grow more and more agitated - not with Scott, specifically, but just in general. He hates that he let himself feel again, he hates that Scott had found him at such a vulnerable moment, and he hates that he can’t just get the fuck out of the place once and for all.

“I really think we should stay the night here,” Scott blurts out.

“What?” Mitch asks, hoping he didn't hear him correctly.

Scott visibly swallows, looking around the room so he doesn't have to meet Mitch's gaze. Mitch doesn't know why, but that makes him even angrier.

“Look, we’ve been driving all day, and -”

“No,” Mitch immediately says, taking a shaky step back, clinging to his walking stick. “You have got to be fucking kidding me, Scott, _no_.”

“Mitch, listen -” Scott tries and Mitch can feel his hands start to shake.

“ _No_ , you are not making me do this, Scott!” Mitch yells, startling even himself with how loud he is but he can't help it - he feels it coming, the deep anger that resides inside of him. It starts crawling up his chest, up his throat and he shakes, taking another step back and forgetting that he can't do that anymore. 

He nearly loses balance and Scott reaches out for him, grabbing him by the waist and Mitch gasps, shoving him back before he can think it through.

“Don't _touch_ me!” he yells, his voice sounding hoarse and Scott's eyes are so huge, so blue when he's surprised.

“Mitch,” Scott says, as softly as he can and he takes a step forward, trying to calm him down and Mitch flies backwards, feeling the tears stinging his eyes again.

“Don't -”

“Mitch, would you just _listen_ to me for once?” Scott says, his voice growing louder and Mitch can feel himself losing control of his mind, his perfectly constructed mind. He's trained himself to stay silent, to stay _still_ and let the anger consume him and he feels it burning through his stomach, his hands trembling, and he snaps.

“ _No!_ ” Mitch all but screams, his throat burning. “I am so _done_ with listening to you! I listened to you once and look where we ended up!” He closes his eyes, not realising that he's crying until he feels the tears on his cheeks and it makes him _furious_. “This is the exact opposite of what I wanted, don't you _get_ that?”

“Mitch, just _talk_ to me, please,” Scott pleads with him. “Tell me what’s wrong, why don’t you want to be here?” But that’s the thing - Mitch doesn’t want to talk, and he certainly doesn’t want to talk to Scott, not about any of this. He _can’t_ talk about this. “Please, Mitch,” Scott tries again. “I’m just trying to help you.” 

“I don’t _want_ your help!” Mitch snaps. His voice shakes and it makes him so angry that he braces himself on his good leg to abandon his walking stick and shove Scott away when he takes a step towards him. “I don’t want _anything_ from you!” 

“Baby - ” Scott starts and he stops himself as soon as the word slips from his lips, but Mitch wants to throw up hearing himself being called someone’s baby again. It’s been so long, too long, and it feels like someone’s taken a knife to his stomach and twisted it. Scott’s face goes so red it’s almost purple and Mitch can tell he didn’t mean to say it, not really, and for some reason that hurts him even more. 

The blond opens his mouth to say something but Mitch interrupts him before the breath can leave his lips. “Do _not_ call me that!” he shoves him again, harder this time. “I’m not your fucking baby! Don’t _ever_ call me that!” He goes to shove Scott again, but the blond pulls him in close, nearly causing Mitch to trip in the process, and he wraps his arms around him tightly. 

“Let go of me!” Mitch shrieks, his voice muffled by his face pressed against Scott’s chest. He expects Scott to reek of dried up blood and caked on dirt and overall misery - like he does - but he smells like pine needles and sweat, and it’s oddly comforting but it makes Mitch want to sob into his shirt. 

He continues to struggle when Scott doesn’t let him go, but the blond just holds him as tightly as he can, hugging him close to his chest as if he’s a teddy bear. “Mitchy, please,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m sorry if I upset you, but _please_ just let me help. Tell me what I did wrong, tell me what you want me to do - _please_?” 

Mitch whimpers, his body going tense as he fights back the urge to break down completely. Salty tears roll down his cheeks and soak into Scott’s shirt. “What do you _want_ from me?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Why can’t you just leave me _alone_? I was doing fine without you, what do you want?” 

Mitch can feel Scott's warm hands on his back and he shivers, trying to pull away but his body seems like it wants to give up. Scott's voice softens even more as he gently shushes him and whispers, “I just want to help you, baby. Please, tell me how I can help you.” 

Mitch whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands resting on Scott's waist and holding on for dear life. “Please don't call me that..” he whispers, feeling himself slowly start to break, letting himself be surrounded by this man, with strong, secure arms around his waist. 

“Please, let me help you,” Scott whispers, pressing his hand gently on the back of Mitch's head and pulling him close so he can rest against his chest and Mitch sobs, pulling at his shirt with both hands. He can feel the barrier break down and he doesn't have a choice but let it all out. 

“I don't want to _be_ here,” he whimpers, and his voice gets tangled in a sob. He shuts his eyes tightly, grabbing Scott’s shirt and clinging to him. He tells himself it’s because he’ll fall if he doesn’t. “God, I just - I _can’t_ be here anymore. I fucking _hate_ it here, Scott.” 

Scott’s hand cradles his head against his chest, and it makes Mitch sob again. He grips Scott’s shirt so tight his knuckles go white and his whole body shakes. “I know, baby,” Scott whispers and god, Mitch wishes he would stop calling him that - but, as much as he hates to admit it, part of him doesn’t want Scott to stop calling him ‘baby’ at all. “I know you hate it here,” he continues. Mitch rolls his eyes, despite crying, because if Scott really knew how much he hated it here, he wouldn’t try to make him stay. 

“But,” Scott says softly. “We can’t keep driving - we’ve been driving for hours and we really need to rest. It’s really safe here, and -” 

“I don’t want to be safe,” Mitch interrupts, and his face scrunches up as he sobs, “I just want it all to go _away_.” 

“What do you want to go away?” Scott whispers. 

Mitch shivers when Scott rubs his back with his other hand and he just whimpers, “Everything.” 

Scott doesn’t say anything for a moment, he just holds Mitch as close to him as he can, his arms wrapped around him tightly and protectively. Mitch can feel him press his lips to his hair and he tenses up, going to pull away but stopping when Scott says, “It’s just for one night, baby. We’ll be gone first thing in the morning -” 

“ _No_!” Mitch sobs, not wanting to cry anymore but he can’t help it, the tears won’t stop and there’s this feeling in his chest that he can’t rid himself of without crying it out. “No, _please_.” 

“It’s just one night,” Scott repeats, desperately. “I promise, just one night and then as soon as the sun rises we can leave.” 

Mitch whimpers, knowing deep down that he's not going to win this one but he tries anyway. “I want to leave _now_ ,” he cries, feeling like a child that isn't getting his way. He can feel Scott's tight arms around him and it makes a shiver run down his spine and he _hates_ it. 

“I know, sweetheart,” Scott sighs, squeezing him just enough to make him feel safe and restrained all at once. “I know you do. But I'll be here, okay?” 

“Why are you _doing_ this?” Mitch whispers, his voice sore. 

Mitch can feel the blond man stiffen just enough to notice as he asks, “Doing what, Mitchy?” 

He curls his fingers into the back of Scott's shirt, feeling the tears soak through the fabric. “Treating me like this. God, I'm so useless, and you're letting me cry all over you.” 

“You’re not useless,” Scott murmurs to him. Mitch shakes his head, disagreeing with him, and he continues, “You’re not, I promise, Mitchy. There’s nothing wrong with you, and there’s nothing wrong with crying.” 

Mitch shakes his head again, trying to will the tears to stop rolling down his cheeks, trying to get himself to shut down once again and not have to feel anything anymore. Trying to get it all to _stop_. 

“It’s okay, Mitchy, it’s okay,” Scott whispers to him. His voice is so soothing and relaxing that if the circumstances were different, Mitch could probably fall asleep to the sound of his voice. The two of them stand there like this; Mitch doesn’t make another effort to shove Scott off of him and get the hell out of UCLA, and Scott just stands there with the younger man in his arms, holding him tightly. Scott shushes him gently and hums to him a little, as if he’s a crying baby in his arms that he’s trying to calm down. Mitch supposes, in a way, he is. 

It takes a while - how long, he isn’t sure - but finally the tears have stopped, the embarrassingly loud sobs have quieted, and Mitch feels so exhausted. A feeling he should be used to, but he can’t help but to deflate a little bit against Scott’s strong and sturdy body. 

He presses his forehead against the blond’s chest and before he can stop himself, he whispers, “You should've just left me on that grocery store floor,” and he shivers a little because he isn’t sure how much he means that, but he knows there’s a part of him that really wishes Scott would’ve left him for dead. 

Scott’s breath hitches and he holds Mitch a little bit tighter. “I would’ve never done that, Mitchy,” he whispers in reply. “ _Never_.” He kisses the top of Mitch’s head for a second time and Mitch wishes he wasn’t counting. “I’m so glad I didn’t leave you there,” he whispers against his hair. 

“Well, you should have,” Mitch whispers, sniffling a little. He uses all the strength he can muster up to push himself away from Scott. Scott lets him go this time and Mitch stumbles backwards a little but manages to balance himself securely on his good leg. He wraps his arms around himself and looks down, his face red with embarrassment. 

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Mitch wipes the tears off his cheeks and keeps his eyes focused on the dirty floor tiles beneath his feet. His face feels hot, all the way from his rosy cheeks to the tips of his ears, and he just feels empty inside, the way you do after a long cry, but not in a satisfying way. He feels humiliated, he feels vulnerable, he feels _exposed_. He was a vault when Scott met him and now he’s opened himself up, now Scott can see all the bits about him that he had been trying to keep hidden. 

“It’s just one night,” Scott whispers, and when Mitch doesn’t reply, he whispers, “I’m really sorry, b - Mitchy.” Mitch flinches when he almost calls him ‘baby’ again. “Do you wanna talk -” 

“I just want to go to bed,” Mitch interrupts in a hushed tone, soft enough that he’s surprised Scott can even hear what he says. He has no idea what time it is, or even if the sun has gone down or not because the choir room doesn’t have windows (he, begrudgingly, admits that Scott may have had a point about this room being safe and secure but honestly, fuck this room and fuck this whole building and this whole school and fuck all of his memories associated with it). 

“Okay, baby,” Scott says softly and Mitch fights the urge to start crying again. He bends down to pick up Mitch’s walking stick and he hands it to him, then places a hand on his lower back and murmurs, “Let’s get you to bed.” 

Mitch sighs, tiredly, and he starts to walk back into the room when he’s stopped by Scott’s armrs looped around his waist. He freezes immediately, tensing up as Scott hugs him from behind and rests his cheek on top of Mitch’s head. He hadn’t realized how tall Scott actually was until right now and it makes his stomach flip. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he whispers to him and Mitch just closes his eyes, not saying anything. “You don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to bab - Mitchy.” 

Mitch just stands there, still and silent because he feels a bit torn right now and he doesn’t trust himself to say anything. Part of him wants to shove Scott off of him and tell him to ‘fuck off’ because it’s partially his fault that he’s broken down like a cheap car. But part of him wants to turn around and kiss Scott until neither of them can breathe. 

He lets out a shaky breath, thinking about how easy it would be to just shove Scott against that piano and have his way with him. He could bite at Scott's lips and leave thick, dark bruises on his hips that he’d feel for days. Scott could probably lift him right up onto the piano and fuck him until he sobs again. 

But he's trained himself well, and he stays silent. Scott squeezes his waist gently and murmurs, “I'm gonna go to the truck and get our things, okay?” and Mitch doesn't reply, just loosens Scott's arms around him and waddles over to the bleachers so he can have a seat. 

He doesn't look up at Scott as he leaves, afraid that if he does he’ll just run into his embrace again. So he just wraps his arms around his legs and looks down. He feels broken, like something tore him open and he's desperately trying to get himself back together again before it's too late. Mitch curses his hurt leg, knowing that it's the only reason why he's in this room again. 

He has to leave. He _has_ to. But he knows he can't, and he grits his teeth, once again feeling like a child. 

Scott comes into the room and locks the door behind him, looking like he's carrying the entire contents of his truck in one arm and Mitch quickly looks down again. He listens as Scott brings their things into the small chorus office, which is even more secluded than the chorus room itself, and starts to set up their beds. 

Mitch doesn't get up until Scott comes out of the room again, playing with his fingers a little nervously. “It's all set,” he says softly and he helps Mitch off the bleachers and walks him into the small room. It looks so cozy, their beds barely a few feet apart and Mitch can feel his eyes start to close, the emotional exhaustion finally starting to get to him. He doesn't know if it's nighttime, but this bed is calling his name. 

He settles down on the blanket, yearning for the days when he could change into his pajamas for bed or wear nothing at all, but those days are gone now. Danger could be around the corner at any moment and you never want to be caught off guard. But he takes his shirt off anyway, hoping that he can find another one in one of the school's theater prop closets. 

Mitch can feel Scott staring at him with his big puppy eyes and that worried expression and he curls up on the bed, facing away from him and trying to quiet his mind. He can hear Scott walk around the room and set up his traps and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep as quickly as possible. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes until Scott whispers, “Do you want me to leave the light on?” 

Mitch has never slept with the light on, but he remembers that Scott left it on the other night, so he whispers, “I don't mind it either way.” 

It's a few seconds before he hears the click of the lamp turning off and the darkness fills the room, so dark that Mitch can't see his hand in front of his face. He feels the tears start to come before he can stop them and he closes his eyes, letting them run down his cheeks and his nose and into his makeshift pillow. 

Scott whispers, “Good night,” and Mitch’s throat closes up with all of the things he wants to say. 


	8. i feel it in my bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitch has no idea how long he’s been asleep for - he guesses (or, at least, he hopes) it’s been a few hours since he initially laid down on Scott’s makeshift bed - but he finds himself being awoken by the sound of soft whimpering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have been SO excited to work on this chapter, literally i think since we came up with the idea for this fic and we’re so happy that it’s finally been written and published for you all to read :’) it's Scott's turn to be angsty...
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au.
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include** : _nightmares/night terrors and implied ptsd_
> 
> title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

_“No.”_

Mitch has no idea how long he’s been asleep for - he guesses (or, at least, he hopes) it’s been a few hours since he initially laid down on Scott’s makeshift bed - but he finds himself being awoken by the sound of soft whimpering. 

_“No, please don’t. Please.”_

H lies still for a moment, his body going stiff and rigid as he tries to judge the scene unfolding before him. It’s too dark for him to see anything so he has to rely on his other senses, and most importantly his gut instinct, to potentially save his life. And so he lays there, the sounds around him seeming to magnify - he hears a bit of shuffling and incoherent mumblings - but he can’t seem to figure out what is going on.

_“Please, don’t do this.”_

It’s Scott. 

Mitch has never been more alert than he is right now. Is Scott okay? Is he being hurt? Is someone hurting him? As quietly as he can, he extends his arm and reaches for his gun (he takes a moment to thank his past self for placing it so close to him before he fell asleep). His fingers curl around the metal and he’s ready to grab it, cock it, and fire it all in the span of two seconds.

_“No!”_

Scott’s harsh sob stops him immediately. He waits and waits for what happens next, but all he can hear is Scott crying. It doesn’t take him long to realize that the two of them are alone, that there are no zombies in the room, that no one is attacking Scott. But someone is hurting him.

“Scott?” he whispers, his voice hoarse from his own break down earlier, hoping that will be enough to stop the crying but it doesn't work. He jumps when Scott lets out another sob, trying to adjust his eyes in the darkness and seeing that the blond is squirming on his makeshift bed, like he's trying to get away from something.

“Baby - baby, please _don't_ ,” Scott sobs, his back arching off the sheets and Mitch flinches, his heart nearly stopping. He crawls over to Scott's bed before he can think twice and he hesitates, not knowing if he should make any sudden movements.

Scott has sweat running down his temple, and when Mitch’s vision readjusts he can tell Scott has his eyes squeezed shut, like he's trying to keep something out. The desperation is so clear on his face and he gasps in his sleep, arms reaching out for the sheets near him, anything to keep him grounded.

“Don't - _do_ this,” he sobs, the tears running down his face and Mitch reacts, grabbing onto Scott's shoulders.

“Scott - it's a dream, Scotty, wake up!” Mitch says, his heart beating out of control in his chest when Scott doesn't.

He thrashes on the bed, a loud sob escaping his lips and he tries to shove Mitch off, his eyes still squeezed shut. “ _No_!” Scott practically yells, arms flailing out to push Mitch off when he comes near again. “Please, Alex - _Don't_!”

Mitch freezes when he hears the name, more confused than ever but now he's determined - tears spring to his eyes when he realizes how desperate Scott is to wake up, to leave this nightmare.

“Scott!” Mitch yells, grabbing at his arms and shaking him. “It's a dream! Baby, it's just a dream,” he gasps, desperate to save him.

Scott chokes out a sob, grabbing onto Mitch’s arms and whimpering, “Baby - please, don't do this, please - I love you, please - “

Mitch gasps, hitting at Scott's chest as a last attempt and nearly yelling, “Baby - it's Mitch! It's just me, baby, wake up, please!”

And Scott flies forward, his eyes snapping open and he cries out, shoving Mitch as hard as he can in his slumber. He sobs, so hysterical that it breaks Mitch’s heart and he cries out, “No, get away from me, _please_!”

“Sweetheart - “ Mitch starts, trying to inch closer and Scott cowers away from him, squeezing his eyes shut again and gasping, trying to catch his breath and not being able to.

“Don't - don't hurt me!” Scott whimpers, wrapping his arms around himself and Mitch notices that he's _trembling_ as he gasps, “I love you, please don't!”

“Scott!” Mitch says, crawling back over and taking Scott's flailing hands in his, “Baby, it’s just Mitch! It's me, no one is going to hurt you, baby, I promise!”

He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels the tears on his cheeks but he can't help it - Scott is hysterical and he's never seen someone look so afraid, so small and so desperate to free himself.

“I love you, I love you so much, please,” Scott whimpers, covering his face with his hands and sobbing, still trying to get away. 

Mitch grabs at his hands despite Scott's terrified sob and says, “You just had a bad dream, baby - please, open your eyes, it's just me!”

Scott sobs, his eyes blinking rapidly and he whimpers, “I can't - I can't _see_!”

Immediately, Mitch scrambles to find a flashlight, his hands shaking and tears clouding his vision, but he finally manages to pick it up and turn it on. He shines the light on Scott’s face and instantly regrets it; he’s never seen someone so broken before, so _scared_. His face is red and his knees are drawn up to his chest, his hands covering his face as he tries to hide, and Mitch has never seen someone as big as Scott look so little. 

“See, baby?” Mitch says softly, his voice shaking a little. “It’s okay, it’s just me and you - no one else is here, no one is going to hurt you.” He waves the light around a little and Scott reaches out for it, taking it away from him and holding it in his own shaky hands. 

Mitch winces when the light shines on his face, but he doesn’t complain and Scott hoarsely whispers, “M - Mitchy?”

Mitch lets out a trembling sigh and nods his head, putting his hands up as a sign of peace and he whispers, “Yes. It's just me, Scotty, see?” 

He takes Scott's hands in his gently, despite the man's trembling grasp on the flashlight, and he murmurs, “He's not here, okay? I promise, he isn't here, baby, it's just me.”

Mitch doesn't realize that's the wrong thing to say until he watches Scott's face crumble, a choked sob escaping his lips again. “Oh, God,” he whimpers, dropping the flashlight and covering his face and he doesn't sound terrified, now. He sounds absolutely heartbroken.

“Oh, baby,” Mitch whispers, gently placing his hands on Scott's arms and Scott makes a pained sound into his hands, shaking his head and whimpering, “Oh God, oh _God_ ,” and Mitch has his arms wrapped around him within seconds.

Scott’s face presses tightly against Mitch’s shoulder and the blonde nearly knocks him over, but Mitch braces himself and holds him up, Scott’s entire body deflating in his arms. He shakes and sobs and Mitch presses one of his hands to the back of his neck, holding him close to him. “It’s okay, Scotty,” he whispers to him, though he’s sure Scott can’t even hear him over his loud cries. “It’s okay.”

It really isn’t though, and Mitch feels terrible for lying to him. 

Scott presses his face against Mitch's chest and pulls at his shirt with both hands, his fingers clinging to the fabric in desperation and he chokes out sob after sob, shaking his head.

Mitch presses a kiss to his temple before he can think twice and he whispers, “It's okay, baby. I'm here now, I got you.”

Mitch lays down and brings Scott with him, holding his broad shoulders as close as he can but the man feels like a baby in his arms. Scott shakes harder than a leaf in a rainstorm and Mitch holds him tight, as if he’s physically trying to hold him together. “It’s okay,” he whispers to him again, the words tasting foul on his tongue. “It’s okay.” 

Scott’s nails dig into Mitch’s sides, holding him close and he presses his face into the crook of his neck, whimpering, “Please don’t leave me.”

Mitch squeezes his eyes shut, Scott’s words wrapping around his heart like a snake and squeezing as tight as they can. His chest aches and it makes it a little harder to breathe, but he manages to choke out, “I won’t, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

The blond nods a little and he grips Mitch’s waist a little tighter. It makes Mitch feel _strange_ ; he can’t even remember the last time someone hugged him at all, nevertheless the last time someone hugged him for longer than a few seconds. And Scott doesn’t let go of him, not even for a second, and it makes Mitch feel _weird_. In a way, his skin is crawling and he has to fight the urge to shove Scott away, but at the same time it feels nice and warm and safe, and Mitch feels very at home in Scott’s arms. 

“Don’t,” Scott whimpers, bringing Mitch out of his thoughts and he tries to stop being so in his head long enough to just be there for him. Mitch’s neck and shirt are soaked with Scott’s tears, and his back and hips are bruised with his fingertips. 

Mitch idly runs his fingers through Scott’s hair and he whispers, “I promise I won’t, baby.”

Scott sniffles a little, hiding his face against Mitch’s neck and he chokes on a sob when he tries to say, “I need you,” and Mitch’s blood runs cold. He’s never been needed. And he’s never needed anyone. _Need_ is a foreign concept to him.

“Scott..” he whispers, his voice shaky.

“Please,” Scott whimpers, his fingers pressing deep into Mitch's hips and nearly making him gasp from pain. “I need you, okay? Don't leave me.”

Mitch closes his eyes, his fingers locking in Scott's hair. The man feels so big in his arms and he smells so good and Mitch wants to stay like this forever. Wants to run his fingers through Scott's hair and kiss him all over his sweet face and make sure he's okay, make sure he's never this sad or broken again.

Mitch swallows hard, feeling Scott's warm body against his, hearing his shaky gasps turn into deep, slow breaths and he runs his cheek over Scott's jaw gently, sighing as the scruff stings his skin.

“Yeah,” he whispers, knowing this is a mistake, knowing he won't be able to keep this promise, “I'll stay, baby. I'll stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross My Heart is now on wattpad!!! here's the link to read it: <https://www.wattpad.com/story/55146293-cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die>
> 
> also our wattpad user names are: [palomasnapples](https://www.wattpad.com/user/palomasnapples) & [scomilexxx](https://www.wattpad.com/user/scomilexxx) !!
> 
> and if you wanna hit us up on tumblr to talk about CMH or anything really, we are [bitchmitchie](bitchmitchie.tumblr.com) & [mermaidmaldonado](mermaidmaldonado.tumblr.com) !!


	9. it’s a revolution, i suppose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott has never been more entranced with a person before - and not in such a long time, either. He finds himself suffocated by feelings he had not felt in months, feelings he thought had died away with his lost love, but have sure enough been resurrected. Nothing terrifies him more, not even the pack of hungry zombies he knows are lurking somewhere in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically we are horrible people and we really enjoy making scott and mitch super angsty. but hey, maybe you enjoy that too! and maybe you’ll enjoy this chapter too! :)
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au.
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - _no trigger warnings for this chapter!_
> 
> title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Scott groans quietly to himself as he wakes, feeling more exhausted than he did before he went to bed and not entirely sure how that’s possible. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time - not since his partying days back in college, when he would spend the night drinking his weight in whatever the host had to offer until he passed out and awoke the next morning on someone’s couch with a throbbing head, not entirely sure how he had gotten there or what the hell happened in the previous hours. He pulls himself out of a dreamless sleep; confused, achy, and not entirely sure what happened last night. 

He yawns, wincing as he sits up because it feels as though every bone in his body is cracking and every one of his muscles are screeching with his movements. At least that much isn’t too far from the usual; Scott’s body has aged a lot in the past few months, even though he hasn’t even made it to his mid-twenties yet.

Blinking a few times, Scott slowly wakes himself up, his vision beginning to clear and when it does, he looks around the choir room and realizes that Mitch is gone. Again. 

“Jesus Christ,” he swears under his breath, wishing that boy could just stay still for just two minutes. He’s getting a bit tired of waking up and Mitch being missing in action. Grumbling to himself, he gets up to his feet, ready to head out and start a search for him, when the door to the choir room opens and Mitch walks inside. 

The younger boy stops in his tracks, looking at Scott for a brief second and then looking away. “I was just packing the truck,” he says softly. Scott looks around, realizing for the first time that all of their things, spare for Scott’s makeshift bed, are gone from the room.

“Oh,” Scott says, the slightest bit surprised at Mitch’s random act of kindness. “Thank you.”

Mitch just nods, still not looking at Scott and Scott can’t quite understand why he’s acting so strange. Deciding not to dwell on it, because it’s not as though Mitch will actually tell him what is bothering him, Scott kneels down to the ground and begins to pack up the remainder of the things in the room. Neither of them say anything and Scott finds the silence to be almost eerie in a way - when Mitch finally blurts out, “Are you okay?”

Scott just stares at him for a moment, waiting to see if Mitch says anything else, but he doesn’t and Scott is even more confused than he was a moment ago. “Am I okay?” he repeats slowly, eyebrows knitting together. _Is_ he okay? Why would Mitch ask him that? And why wouldn’t he be okay? His mind feels a bit foggy at the moment and there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, as if _something_ had happened last night that he can’t quite put his finger on. But other than he’s completely fine -

And then it hits him.

Alex is the first thing that comes to mind, and then it all comes rushing back to him - his nightmare, the meltdown that shortly followed, Mitch trying to comfort him, falling asleep in Mitch’s arms… and he feels so _sick_. He’s so embarrassed just _thinking_ about the hysteria he must’ve blubbered through tears when he awoke from the horror that haunted his dreams. 

And he doesn’t even want to think about Mitch trying to calm him down, the way Mitch cuddled him in his arms, Mitch calling him his baby over and over again until Scott stopped crying. His stomach drops and all he wants is to curl up into a ball and stay in this choir room for the rest of his life. 

He can’t even meet Mitch’s eyes now, blush rising to up his neck and his cheeks. His whole body feels hot and he just feels so humiliated. This isn’t the first time he’s had a Zombie Alex nightmare like that, but it’s the first time someone’s actually witnessed the ordeal, and he can’t help but feel so vulnerable. It’s like someone saw a part of him that he wasn’t ready to share with anyone. 

“I’m uh,” he finally chokes out, his voice soft. He sounds small, even to his own ears. “I’m s -”

“Forget about it,” Mitch says right away, not letting Scott finish. The blond glances up at him briefly; Mitch isn’t look at him either. He stands there awkwardly, pulling the sleeve of his shirt down to cover his hands then pushing it up once again. “Really, it’s - it’s no big deal. We don’t have to talk about it.” 

Scott doesn’t say anything. Truthfully, he isn’t sure _what_ to say; part of him is relieved that Mitch is just brushing it off completely. But part of him also wishes that, for once, Mitch wasn’t so damn afraid of intimacy. 

“Are you ready to go?” Mitch asks him, still a bit twitchy, not looking at Scott. 

“Yeah,” Scott says slowly. “Yeah, sure, let’s go.” Mitch helps him gather up the remainder of their things and he’s gone before Scott can even offer to help him carry anything. Heaving a heavy sigh, Scott starts to leave but he stops when something catches his eye.

A bulletin board lies on the floor, fallen from its space on the wall, but what captures Scott’s attention is the plethora of photos pinned to it. It looks perfectly fine; the edges of the board are splintered, probably from the force of it being knocked down, but the photos are still intact. They’re a little faded, a little wrinkled, but they’re okay. Of course they are, scavengers have no use for photographs or other people’s memories. 

Scott lingers for a moment, looking through the pictures, and a small smile tugs at his lips. He comes to conclude that these were the chorus classes of UCLA in previous years, before everything had gone to shit. All of the pictures are essentially the same thing - a group of students standing together as if they’re posed for a class photo with the school year in text beneath the group. The photos are in chronological order and Scott scans through the several years’ worth of choir nerds, his heart nearly stopping in his chest at the most recent picture. 

It’s _Mitch_.

Mitch is in the photo. 

Scott audibly gasps, quickly removing the thumbtack holding the photo in place and picking it up to give it a closer look. At a glance, he might’ve not have even realized it was Mitch - the person in this photo looks so different to the person Scott has come to know. He looks so… _happy_. Even in a dull photograph, his smile is so bright. His face is rounder and he looks younger, and it makes Scott’s heart ache thinking about a young man like Mitch being forced to grow up so fast because of everything that’s happened.

“Scott?” 

He flinches, quickly folding the picture in half and sticking it in his back pocket just as Mitch appears in the doorway. “Is everything okay?” he asks, a slightly impatient edge to his tone but still sincere and concerned. 

“I - yeah,” Scott stutters. “Everything’s fine, I was just,” he stops himself, shaking his head, and he says, “Forget it, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

Mitch makes a noise that sounds a little like a bitter laugh, and he nods in agreement, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

* * *

The car ride is quiet for the most part, neither Mitch nor Scott saying a word to each other. Scott hates the quiet; nothing fucks him up more than complete and utter silence. It’s only made worse because he doesn’t even know what to _say_ to Mitch. He feels like he knows something he shouldn’t, but he has an inkling that Mitch must feel the same way. 

“How's your foot?” Scott asks quietly, noticing that Mitch still has the piece of wood with him.

Mitch nearly flinches, like his mind was somewhere else entirely and he blinks, shifting a little in his seat. “It's fine. I can take little steps now,” he murmurs, looking out the window again.

“That's good,” Scott says, happy that Mitch isn't in so much pain anymore. But Mitch doesn't say anything else, just leans his head back against the seat and plays with his ripped jeans.

Scott bites his lip before he blurts out, “Did you graduate?”

Mitch looks at him so fast he must have whiplash, his eyes so big and surprised. “Did I.. _What_?”

Scott looks at him, slowing the car down. “Did you graduate from UCLA?” he asks, his voice as soft as possible and Mitch looks a little terrified, but mostly angry and stunned.

He doesn't answer for a while and Scott assumes he's just going to ignore him, which is pretty common, and then Mitch says, “No. I.. No, I didn't.”

Scott desperately hopes for an explanation but it never comes and Mitch shuts down again, his face bright pink from blushing. Scott doesn't understand why it's so difficult for Mitch to talk about things that once affected him and it drives him crazy.

“So,” Scott murmurs softly, and Mitch glances over to him as he breaks the silence. “What was your major?”

“Excuse me?” Mitch asks, raising an eyebrow.

“What was your major?” Scott repeats. “You know, when you were in school.”

Mitch turns away from him and he looks down at his lap, mumbling, “Who cares? It’s not like a degree means anything anymore.”

“I know that,” Scott says slowly. “But I was just curious –”

“Well it doesn’t matter,” Mitch snaps, and Scott falls silent immediately.

The blond doesn’t say anything for a moment and the silence in his truck is overwhelming, almost painful. Mitch doesn’t look at Scott again, not even when Scott breaks the silence once more by softly asking, “Why do you keep doing this?” When Mitch doesn’t reply, Scott continues, “Why do you keep pushing me away? I’m not doing anything wrong; all I want to do is get to know you –”

“Because none of that matters, Scott!” Mitch interrupts. “Nothing from Before matters now, so why are you always trying to bring it up?”

“What do you _mean_ it doesn’t matter?” Scott asks him, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little bit tighter. His knuckles turn white and his face goes red. “How – how can you say that? Your friends, your family, your memories –”

“I don’t care about any of that, Scott!” Mitch tells him. “They don’t matter to me anymore, and I don’t know why that shit still matters to you! You need to just let it go already!”

“And just who the fuck are _you_ to tell me how to live my life?” Scott demands, his head snapping to the side to look at Mitch, his usually soft eyes now dark with anger. “Because if I’m being completely honest, I don’t think _you_ of all people should be giving _anybody_ life advice!”

“What the hell does _that_ mean?” Mitch asks, turning his body to face him.

“I think you know _exactly_ what that means, Mitch,” Scott replies right away.

Mitch makes a sound so low in his throat, it sounds like he’s growling and Scott glances at him once again; he’s never seen someone look so furious. His face is red and his hands are balled into tight fists and through gritted teeth, he murmurs, “Well, you know what I think, Scott?” Before Scott gets a chance to reply, Mitch opens the glove box and takes out Scott’s Beyonce CD.

“I think,” he says, his hands shaking. “You really need to get rid of this stupid CD.” He proceeds to throw the CD over his shoulder, and Scott feels a stab to his chest when he hears the plastic case collide with the back of his truck.

“You’re never going to listen to it again!” Mitch tells him, ignoring the way Scott yells _what the hell are you doing?!_. “Why the fuck are you still carrying it around? It’s a waste of space! Just move on, already!”

“Mitch -”

“And you know what else?” Mitch continues, ignoring Scott’s protest and rummaging through the glove box, pulling out several of mementos of Scott’s. He grabs handfuls of papers Scott had kept hidden, drawings from Alex that he had been holding onto, and without even looking at them Mitch throws them over his shoulder. They scatter in all over the backseat and Scott’s blood boils. “Stop holding onto _everything_ from your past! Move on and stop dwelling on all of this shit! It doesn’t matter anymore - none of this matters anymore, Scott!”

Scott slams on the breaks in the middle of Mitch’s rant, and the wheels screech against the pavement as he pulls to an abrupt stop on the side of the road. 

Mitch cries out, nearly flying forward into the dashboard and he grabs at the door to keep himself steady, looking at Scott with wide eyes.

“What the _fuck_ \- “ he starts, sounding breathless and Scott doesn't give him a chance to say anything else.

“ _No_!” he yells, putting the car in park and turning to look at Mitch, who flinches at how loud Scott's voice suddenly is. “It's _my_ turn to yell. What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?!” Scott gasps, feeling like his blood is literally boiling, his face overheating and he has never been so angry.

“All I've done - _all_ I have done so far is help you! I have wanted nothing else but for you to be healthy and okay again - and you have the _nerve_ to throw my shit around and disrespect me like this?” Scott spits, slamming his hand against the middle compartment between them and Mitch flinches, backing away slightly toward the window.

“It is _not_ my fault that you have nothing else to hold onto - I have _nothing_ to do with your past and your shitty attitude about it, but do _not_ fucking try to change me and the way I feel!” Scott yells, his hands trembling. He has never been so angry, so furious at a person before and Mitch looks like he wants to cry, his big eyes wild.

Scott glares at him, his mind still reeling and he says, “I love all of those things - I keep them because it reminds me that I'm still human and even though the world has turned to shit, I'm still me and nothing is going to change that! It's not my fault you're closed off and don't let anyone in - I'll stop pushing you, but do _not_ try to change me, Mitch.”

He shakes, his hands gripping the steering wheel once again and he says, “I've had it with you being an asshole to me when all I'm trying to do is help you.”

And he starts the car again and continues to drive, his vision blurring with how angry he is but he has to distract himself before he punches Mitch square in the jaw. Mitch doesn't say a word, and the silence is thick with tension.

Scott tries to catch his breath, clenching his jaw so tight it hurts, his fingers gripping at the steering wheel until his knuckles are white. He can't remember the last time he was this angry and hurt. And that's the worst part, the fact that he feels _hurt_ that Mitch is constantly such a jerk to him. He curses under his breath, knowing that he should just open the door and let Mitch waddle away and take care of his damn self.

But he knows he can't and he won't. He's grown to enjoy Mitch's company and he can't bare to think about the boy being by himself and getting injured because of his hurt foot, or worse, getting killed. It's a nightmare that Scott hopes to never relive.

It's dead silent in the car until Mitch whispers, “I was a theater major.”

Scott swallows hard, glancing over at Mitch before he continues watching the abandoned road.

“I.. was a theater major, and I was in all three of the choruses, and I practically lived in that room for two years,” he says quietly, shifting in his seat and clearly uncomfortable. “That's why I didn't want to stay. Everything went to shit right before my junior year and that used to be my home and I hate everything about that place because it hurts to be there,” he admits softly.

Scott blinks, knowing exactly what it feels like to hate where you came from, and he's about to say that but Mitch keeps going, murmuring, “I can't remember the last time I heard an instrument that wasn't completely out of tune. That’s why I was crying when you came into the room.”

He smiles, letting out a small, bitter laugh. “How pathetic is that?” he asks.

“That's not pathetic,” Scott says softly, his voice hoarse from the yelling. Mitch looks at him, his eyes wet with tears, and Scott catches his stare, whispering, “That's not pathetic at all, Mitchy.”

Mitch shrugs a little, clearly not believing him and Scott feels himself relax, just enough to ask, “Were you in a lot of shows?”

He watches as Mitch smiles, small and sad. “Yeah, I was in a bunch of shows. I barely remember all of them since high school.”

Scott hesitates for a moment, but then considers that if Mitch can open up to him then he can definitely open up to him as well. “Alex loved all of the behind the scenes stuff,” he says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips at the memory. “He would invite me to every UCLA musical, and I would get so excited because I thought he was actually in them, but he was just a crew member for the most part.”

“The crew is just as important as the cast,” Mitch tells him, his voice still soft and timid. 

Scott bites his lip to try and hide his smirk, glancing at Mitch. “He used to tell me the same thing when I teased him about it,” he says and Mitch smiles and looks away, like he doesn't know what to do with that information. Scott doesn't know what to do with it either and he clears his throat.

“Do you - did you have a favorite musical?” Scott asks him and Mitch groans, running his hands over his face like it's the hardest question he's ever been asked.

“Oh, man. I love so many, I don't think I can choose just one,” Mitch says and Scott bites his lip again because Mitch looks so sweet like this, wondering about happy things like musicals and songs for once, instead of all the horrible things around them.

“Come on, you need to have a favorite,” Scott teases him. “How about a favorite song? Even after all this time, you must remember at least one of them.”

Mitch hums, his eyes squinting as he tries to think. “You know what song I'm always singing in my head?”

“Hmm?”

“ _Don't Do Sadness_ , do you know that one? From Spring Awakening?”

Scott gasps, looking at Mitch with big eyes. “That is one of my _favorite_ musicals,” he tells, the song instantly rushing back to mind as soon as Mitch says the title. 

Mitch smiles at him, a big, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and Scott is nearly speechless. 

“Wow, really?” he ask. Scott doesn’t say anything and instead just starts to hum the song, goosebumps rising on his arms when Mitch catches on right away and starts humming the other half, his voice sweeter than anything Scott has ever heard.

“ _Spring and Summer, every other day,_ ” Mitch sings softly, his eyes closed and Scott's stomach suddenly sinks with how much he feels for this boy. The morning sun shines through the window of the car and Mitch looks beautiful, his voice practically angelic as he reaches the last few words.

” _The wandering clouds of the dust, Spring and Summer,_ ” Mitch all but whispers and Scott watches him because he can't look anywhere else, the empty road in front of him completely forgotten. Mitch catches his gaze and then looks down at his hands, his lips curling into a small smile.

“Sorry, I got carried away,” he whispers.

Scott can’t seem to stop staring at Mitch, a small smile tugging at his lips as he whispers, “Don’t apologize. Please don’t apologize.” 

There’s a sharp pain in his chest, as if his heart is truly skipping a beat. A blush is creeping up Mitch’s neck and Scott has never been more entranced with a person before - and not in such a long time, either. He finds himself suffocated by feelings he had not felt in months, feelings he thought had died away with his lost love, but have sure enough been resurrected. Nothing terrifies him more, not even the pack of hungry zombies he knows are lurking somewhere in the shadows.


	10. make my system blow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart is pounding so hard he can’t even hear, and his mouth feels dry, and his chest feels so tight that he can hardly breathe. He’s not even fully aware of him whispering, “I promise. I won’t leave you,” to Scott.
> 
> Scott pulls back, his tear filled eyes meeting Mitch’s once again, and Mitch’s head is absolutely spinning that he can’t grasp onto a single coherent thought. Before he can talk himself out of it, he leans in and presses his lips to Scott’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay.. okay. yes we took a very, very long time to update this. go ahead, throw things at us. hOWEVER i, personally, think that this chapter is worth the wait! a LOT happens in this chapter, so we’re just not going to say anything and let our fic speak for itself :) 
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au.
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include** : _slight gore, angst, mentions of death/murder, and smut_
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

One of the worst parts of the zombie apocalypse, other than the constant death and the fear for your safety, is the boredom.

Every day is a different adventure, trying to find a good place to rest, trying to find food that won't make you sick, trying to find more weapons if you can. But once that's all over, it's mostly just a sad waiting game.

Waiting for the next day, the next confrontation with a hoard of zombies, the next meal. The next injury, the next death. And the cycle repeats.

Mitch is very sick of this cycle. He finds himself constantly wondering what it would be like to not exist. To have his brain shut off, all of his anxieties silenced. No more pain, no more suffering. Just a beautiful, long silence.

And now that Scott is in the picture, Mitch wants that silence even more. It's not that the man is loud - he is actually quite quiet and respectful when Mitch tells him to shut up - but he makes the noise inside Mitch's head grow louder with every second. One glance at Scott in the morning, when he's still delirious from sleep and a second away from curling up and never moving again, and Mitch's mind goes reeling. 

He thinks about running his fingers through Scott's blonde hair, pressing lazy kisses on his scruffed up jaw. He wonders if Scott would get loud or if his entire demeanor would change, if he would just grab Mitch’s hips and have his way with him, bruise him up and bite him.

Mitch thinks about cuddling up against Scott, those strong arms wrapped around him so tight. Making him feel safe, really safe, for the first time in months, because he knows Scott won't let anything happen to him.

And then he snaps back to reality, feeling physically ill because of how much he _wants_.

But he can't. He knows he can't. That would just be irresponsible.

It doesn't stop him from feeling like shit when he realizes how much he's been hurting Scott, though. Normally he couldn't care less about other people's feelings. He's cared enough to last a damn lifetime, if he's being honest, and none of it was worth it. But his stomach curls when he thinks about how upset he made the man. Mitch has never heard someone sound so hurt and angry and he feels his face heat up just thinking about it. He shouldn't have thrown those things and he shouldn't have said the things he said, but now it was too late to take it all back. The damage is done.

He tries to open himself up to Scott as much as he can, but it's painful. He absolutely hates being so vulnerable and talking about his past, but he does it anyway, hoping that will fix things. But it doesn't, because he can tell Scott is still angry and closing himself off, which he has never done. 

Mitch chews on his bottom lip and lets the guilt consume him. He doesn't know why he feels so terrible. Scott is just another person, after all. Mitch should practically be immune to feeling things for other people, but he clearly isn't.

So when Scott parks at an abandoned mall and tells him he's going inside to look for supplies, Mitch doesn't have the heart to let him go by himself. He just nods, grabs his gun and ignores Scott's surprised face as he follows him inside, his walk practically a waddle now. He grits his teeth, ignoring the dull pain in his leg as he follows Scott inside the mall. 

Neither of them say a word to each other, which most likely explains how they end up separated just a few minutes after initially arriving. When Mitch turns around and sees that Scott isn’t with him anymore, panic swells up in his chest instantly and he frantically looks around, hoping to see him rounding a corner or lingering a few feet away from him. 

When he doesn't see him right away, he cocks his gun and puts it in position, whispering, “Scott?”

And Scott pops his head out of an old store he went into and he raises an eyebrow at Mitch's raised gun. “I'm right here, Mitch,” he says quietly, pointing at the store behind him, “I think I found some canned food, I'll be right out, okay?”

Mitch swallows hard, lowering his weapon and feeling his cheeks warm up with a blush. “Yeah, okay,” he whispers and turns around, walking into the first store he sees because he can't bare to see Scott looking at him like that. Like he's worried and confused that Mitch is showing any interest in his well being. It makes him feel like absolute shit.

It takes him a second to realize he walked into an old record store and he looks around in awe. The store is dusty and most of the CD cases are destroyed. He assumes someone wanted to blow off some steam, and what better place than here, he thinks to himself. He can hear the glass breaking into little pieces when he steps on them and it makes him sad to think that these used to bring so much joy to people and now they’re practically worthless.

Mitch looks around the store, seeing all the old band posters and some merch still hanging off the walls. When he turns and looks at one of the shelves, his heart nearly stops.

He practically runs to the shelf, holding the small machine in his hands once it’s in reach and flipping it open, looking inside to see if it's broken. He flips the switch on the side and he gasps, his eyes nearly stinging with tears when he realizes it's powered by batteries, and it _works_.

Mitch doesn't think twice, just grabs it and stuffs it in his bag, and he barely has a chance to smile and do a little happy dance before he hears Scott’s footsteps behind him. He quickly turns around, eyes wide, and heart pounding at the idea of being caught with his little surprise for Scott. He doesn’t get a chance to open his mouth before Scott puts his pointer finger up to his lips, signalling for Mitch to be quiet, and he whispers as soft as he can, “We’ve got company.”

There’s a distant sound of moaning off in the distance and Mitch’s heart nearly stops; it’s been days since their last interaction with any zombies - he should’ve _known_ that it had been too good to be true. 

The two waste no time trying to get out, hoping their escape goes silent, unnoticed, and that it goes off without a hitch. But that would require Scott or Mitch to have some luck and that is just something neither of them have. 

Maybe it’s just terrible timing, maybe they aren’t as quiet as they thought, but all it takes is one monster to see them before the rest follow suit and then everything else happens so fast, it all feels like a blur. Before he can even register what he’s doing, Mitch is shoving Scott forward, shouting at him to run and he’s pulling the trigger on his shotty, taking down as many zombies as he can. 

They're loud and desperate, stomping through the mall and trying to reach their dinner. Mitch is panting, shoving at them as best as he can without getting scratched or bitten. When he clears himself an opening, he runs as fast as he can, his swollen leg aching. He hits a zombie with the barrel of his gun, and blood splatters onto his hands. Scott practically drives through the mall doors trying to get Mitch into the truck.

Mitch throws his shotty and his bag into the bed of Scott’s truck, then jumps up onto the bumper, hoisting himself inside while Scott is still driving. He slams himself down a little too hard and cries out in pain when he feels a stab of pain in his leg, but he’s in Scott’s truck and they’re driving away from the zombies and they’re _safe_. He allows himself to lay on his back for a moment to catch his breath, eyes closed and body trembling with the leftover adrenaline. “Holy shit,” he whispers to himself. 

“Are you alright?” Scott asks him. His voice sounds shaky and he’s still driving too fast.

Mitch sits up and looks down at his hands. They’re still splattered with blood and he wipes them on the leg of his pants. “Fine,” he tells Scott, taking another moment to compose himself before he climbs through the window, separating the bed of his truck and the backseat, and then up to the passenger's seat. He drops into it, exhausted, and closes his eyes again, chest still heaving as he tries to calm down.

It’s quiet for a moment. “You’ve got blood on your hands,” Scott says softly. 

Mitch shakes his head. “Not mine.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Scott asks again. His eyes are still closed but Mitch can feel Scott’s palm on his thigh. He feels warm and sleepy and doesn’t make an effort to push him away. Not this time.

“Just,” Mitch pants. “Give me a minute.” He’s never been like this before - he’s never _needed_ a minute. He’s always been so resilient; able to fight to the death and then get moving again less than a minute later. And he’s never needed someone’s hand on his leg, asking him if he was okay. 

He doesn’t know what’s going on with him and, truth be told, he doesn’t know how he feels about it. 

Scott moves his hand from his thigh to reach under his seat for a bottle of water and he hands it to Mitch, smiling a little as he says, “You did good today, killer.”

Mitch rolls his eyes as he takes a few sips of water, careful not to drain the whole bottle in one go despite how thirsty - and probably dehydrated - he is. “You’re so fucking lame,” he says a moment later, and Scott laughs a little, which causes Mitch to blush and smile. He doesn’t know how he feels about that either. 

* * *

Just as the sun is beginning to set, Scott and Mitch find themselves another abandoned store to take refuge in for the night.

Mitch is nervous, wringing his fingers until they hurt. Scott is trying to heat up some canned soup he found earlier with a Bunsen burner and it's not working out as well as they hoped, but Mitch can't even think about eating. 

“I wonder if there’s any health risks to eating cold soup,” Scott murmurs, clearly frustrated with the current food situation, and Mitch nearly jumps out of his skin when his voice breaks the silence. 

Mitch exhales slowly, trying to relax. “Probably a few,” he says. He hesitates for a moment but he gets up and walks over to Scott, his arms wrapped around his middle. “I’m not - I’m not very hungry anyway.”

“I know, but we have to keep our strength up,” Scott tells him. “The last thing I want is you passing out from hunger.”

“I’m not going to pass out,” Mitch rolls his eyes. “Just,” he sighs, reaching for Scott’s arm, gently wrapping his fingers around his bicep. “There’s something I wanted to - something I wanted to tell you.” His heart is hammering in his chest so loud he can barely hear himself. 

Scott finally gives up on trying to make soup and he shuts the burner off, turning to face Mitch, his undivided attention on him. “What’s up?” he asks, his voice soft with concern. 

Mitch chews on his bottom lip anxiously, biting at his chapped skin and painfully pulling on it with his teeth. He can taste blood on his tongue when he licks his lips before saying, “I - I just,” he sighs a little, frustrated with himself for not being able to take the thoughts floating around his mind and turn them into a coherent statement. 

“You’re nervous,” Scott says, and he sounds amused enough that it makes Mitch want to kick him in the chest.

Instead, he just rolls his eyes. “I’m not nervous,” he grumbles (even though he totally is and he hates that Scott can read him like a book). “Just. Wait a second,” he finally manages to choke out and he reaches for his backpack, unzipping it and reaching inside for the portable CD player he found at the mall.

The old CD store was an omen, that much he knew, and the second Mitch saw the player he knew that he had to take it for Scott. The blond probably doesn’t even remember the last time he listened to his Beyonce CD and when Mitch found out that the player worked, it didn’t take a second thought. He looks down at it as he cradles it in his hands; it’s round and gray and looks utterly out of place amidst the wreckage of the store. 

And then he glances over to Scott, who just looks confused - as if he can’t believe what he sees. His mouth is open as if he’s going to say something but no words come out, and Mitch takes it upon himself to press the PLAY button on the CD player, filling the silence. 

The sound of static fills the air, briefly followed by Harvey Keitel’s voice saying, _Ms. Third ward -_ and Mitch can’t hear anything else that follows because Scott gasps so loudly.

“ _How_?” is all he can manage to choke out. He jumps up to his feet almost right away and walks towards Mitch, gently holding the CD player in his hands as if he can’t believe what he’s touching. He runs his fingers over it in its entirety and Mitch can see goosebumps rising on his forearms. 

The brunet smiles. “I have my ways,” he says, hoping to appear mysterious and aloof despite the fact that his heart is racing inside his chest. “Do you like it?” he asks softly.

“This,” Scott looks from the CD player to Mitch to the player again, “This is for _me_?” he asks.

“Of course it is,” Mitch tells him. He gently pushes it into Scott’s hands, but he continues holding onto it because Scott is shaking so badly. “I was so awful to you, and it doesn’t matter how badly you get under my skin - because believe me, you do without even trying - you still didn’t deserve what I did and said to you.”

He swallows hard, looking down because he can’t bring himself to meet Scott’s eyes. “I just wanted to make things better between us. After... well, I was an asshole the other day and,” he whispers and sighs a little, “I don’t want you to hate me.”

“Jesus, Mitch,” Scott breathes, and Mitch finally glances up at him. “I don’t think I could hate you if I tried,” he tells him, quietly. Mitch’s mouth feels dry and his legs suddenly don’t feel strong enough to hold him up and there’s an ache in his chest that feels painfully good, as if he wants _more_ of this feeling.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, the butterflies in his stomach nearly making him shiver and he watches as Scott starts to smile, his blue eyes big and wet with emotion. The blond puts his hands over Mitch's on the player and squeezes as best as he can, sounding breathless and happy when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, of course, Mitch.”

Mitch wants to cry. Beyonce’s voice fills the room, as best as it can with this little player, and Mitch nearly closes his eyes when the beginning of ‘Ghost/Haunted’ begins to play but he's so glad he doesn't, because Scott is doing exactly that and he wouldn't miss this view for the world. He watches as Scott smiles, big and beautiful, with his eyes closed as he enjoys the music.

“I can't _believe_ this,” Scott says quietly, voice cracking and Mitch licks his lips, tries not to tackle him to the ground.

“Well…. It's yours,” he whispers, as Beyonce sings, _I know if I'm onto you, you must be onto me_ , and he's not sure if he's just talking about the CD player anymore.

Scott grins at that, gently takes the player and sets it on the nearest table. They both gasp when ‘Drunk In Love’ starts to play.

“Oh, holy _shit_ ,” Scott says, covering his mouth with emotion and Mitch starts laughing, giddy with excitement. He grabs onto the nearest bottle of booze they have and takes a swig before the first line, and he mouths along with her, _I've been drinking, I've been drinking.._ and Scott takes the bottle from his hands and throws back a longer one.

Mitch can't remember the last time he smiled this much. The CD is beautiful and a classic, but watching Scott's joy is enchanting and suffocating at the same time. So he drinks along with the songs, a little glad that he's still sober during Blow because he would probably have done something very embarrassing.

Scott is dancing around the room by the time ‘No Angel’ starts and he pulls Mitch with him, who hesitates for a whole five seconds until the beat drops, because he can't _help_ it. Scott is smiling so big like the sun and he's spinning Mitch around the room before he can think twice and Mitch's jaw hurts from laughing.

It's beautiful, the power of music, he thinks.

They drink throughout the CD, probably way more than they should, but Mitch figures this is the first time Scott has let himself have a good time since this madness has begun. And Mitch doesn't have the heart to stop him, not when he's belting the words to ‘XO’ and ‘Superpower.’

But the next song barely begins before Scott is stepping away from Mitch and his shoulders are deflating. The beautiful smile on his face slowly fades away and he looks down at the ground, taking a step or two back so he can press his back against the wall.

Mitch tries to breathe normally, not really knowing what's going on. He takes a step forward and says, “Scott? What's wrong?”

Beyonce begins to sing, _I fought for you, the hardest, it made me the strongest_ and Scott closes his eyes, his face falling in every sense of the word, like the weight of the world just landed back on his shoulders and he can't keep it all up. He slides down against the wall until he's sitting on the floor, his legs bent in front of him and Mitch watches as he covers his face, the song continuing.

_But Heaven couldn't wait for you. So go on, go home._

“Oh, Scotty,” Mitch whispers, stepping forward and not wanting to get too close. But the second he sees Scott's shoulders shake with a sob, he's on his knees and crawling towards him. He engulfs the blond in a hug, holding him tight and close, and Scott clings to him as he cries, his entire frame trembling in Mitch’s arms.

“Remember,” Scott gasps a little, trying to find his voice and he sounds so pained that Mitch just wants to shush him gently. “Remember when you asked me who told me to stay the same as before no matter what?” Scott doesn’t wait for Mitch to reply, and he continues, still as pained as before, “He - he always told me, ‘you’re perfect just the way you are, don’t ever change,’” he laughs bitterly but it sounds something akin to a sob. “I guess I took him a little too seriously.”

Immediately, Mitch knows what this is about - or, technically, who this is about. He remembers the name that fell from Scott’s lips the night he had his nightmare - _Alex_ \- and he can’t stop himself before he asks, “Who was Alex?” his voice so soft that Mitch is amazed Scott is able to hear him over Beyonce’s voice. 

“He -” Scott gasps, his voice trapped in another sob and Mitch immediately regrets asking him. “He was my boyfriend,” he finally manages to choke out. He’s still shaking - all of him is shaking; his voice, his body. He clings to Mitch as if he’s going to leave him the same way Alex did. “I was,” he pauses, another harsh sob wracking at his chest, “I was going to propose to him. Before everything went bad.”

Mitch feels something inside of him completely shatter, and he presses his face to Scott’s hair, closing his eyes and whispering, “You don’t have to talk about this.” The thing is, though, he isn’t sure if he’s saying this for Scott’s sake or his own. Because Mitch isn’t good with feelings and comforting and empathy. And he doesn’t think he can stand to hear Scott crying because it hurts so much.

Scott doesn’t seem to hear him, or maybe he does and just ignores him, because he goes on and whispers, “I never told anyone this before..”

Mitch swallows hard. “That you were going to propose?” he whispers.

Scott shakes his head, letting out a small, broken whimper. “No, Mitchy, I... He's...” he starts, and he presses his face closer to Mitch’s neck, like he doesn't want anyone to hear what he has to say, and he whispers, “I - I killed him, Mitch. He's dead because of me.”

Mitch’s heart nearly stops in his chest, a sharp stab of pain blossoming throughout his torso and he’s sure that he stops breathing for a second. “Scott...” is all he can choke out, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. He can’t hear himself over Scott’s cries.

“I didn't - I didn't _want_ to,” the blond sobs and he clings to Mitch's body, his fingers digging into his sides so hard it makes Mitch flinch. “He was just - I had to, I _had_ to do it, he _made_ me -”

“Scott,” Mitch whispers, running his fingers through his hair and pulling gently when the man starts to get hysterical, his sobs echoing in the room as the sad song continues to play. He tugs at Scott's hair and presses his mouth against his temple, murmuring, “Shh, just breathe for me, Scotty,”

Scott takes in a shaky breath and pulls at the back of Mitch's shirt with both hands, whimpering, “He.. He got bit. It happened so fast and I couldn't do a damn thing, I didn't - I didn't protect him, like I told him I would, I always _told_ him -”

Mitch pulls him by the hair again and gently pulls Scott's face from his neck, taking the man's jaw in his hands. “Scott, baby - I need you to breathe, okay? I got you, but you need to breathe.”

Scott gasps, trying to take in a full breath and Mitch runs his fingers through his hair and shushes him gently, murmuring, “There you go, sweetheart, I got you.”

Scott’s teary eyes look up at Mitch’s, brown meeting blue, and he whispers, “I didn’t want to do it.”

“I know you didn’t, baby,” Mitch whispers, running his fingers through his hair then moving down to cup his face in his hands. “I know you didn’t.” 

The blond reaches for Mitch’s arms, pressing his nails into his skin so hard that Mitch actually winces. “Please don’t leave me,” Scott sobs. “Promise me - please, Mitchy. _Please_.” 

“Scott..” Mitch whispers, his voice tight and small. His eyes are wide and his whole body trembles, despite Scott holding him so tightly.

“I need you,” Scott whimpers, still clinging to him, and Mitch feels like he can’t breathe. “ _Please_ , Mitchy, please. I need you - I need you so bad. I can’t lose someone else I care about - I _can’t_.” He sobs again, pulling Mitch into him; as soon as their bodies make contact, Mitch gasps and Scott buries his face against Mitch’s neck. “Please promise you won’t leave,” the blond sobs. “Promise me, _please_.”

“I promise,” Mitch whispers right away. His heart is pounding so hard he can’t hear, his mouth feels dry, and his chest feels so tight it hurts. He’s not even fully aware of him whispering, “I promise. I won’t leave you.”

Scott pulls back, his tear filled eyes meeting Mitch’s once again, and Mitch’s head is absolutely spinning - he can’t grasp onto a single coherent thought. Before he can talk himself out of it, he leans in and presses their lips together. 

He feels Scott go rigid initially, but a second or so later, he relaxes and his hands are on Mitch’s hips, quickly pulling the boy onto his lap. Mitch immediately straddles Scott’s waist, his hands on Scott’s face, and he shivers when he feels the scruff beneath his fingertips. They don’t break contact for a second, hungrily and desperately kissing each other. They’ve both been starved of contact - of the sense of touch, of sexual intimacy - for so very long that they can’t help it.

Mitch doesn’t want this to stop. Because he’s never been good at keeping promises. Because he can’t look at Scott without guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach, settling and eating away at him like acid. Because Scott pushes his shirt up and pulls it over his head, and Mitch doesn't even realize it until he feels a rush of cool air against his skin. Because Scott’s hands are moving up and down his back, his hands curling just slightly and his nails pressing into Mitch’s skin. Because this feels too damn good to put to an end.

“Scott - “ he gasps against his mouth, pulling hard at his hair. “Fuck, _Scott_.”

And Scott just whimpers, clinging to Mitch like his life depends on it as he kisses him over and over, messy and breathless. Mitch pulls away to groan, his hands flying to the hem of Scott's shirt and tugging, swearing, “Fucking - take this _off_ ,” when he gets impatient and can't do it.

Scott barks out a laugh, still broken from his tears, and kisses Mitch so hard their teeth nearly knock together. He bites at Mitch's chin before he pulls away and tugs his shirt off, and Mitch is pushing him back against the wall before he can think twice, his teeth latching onto the side of Scott's neck.

The blond gasps, nails digging into the boy's sides and Mitch moans, biting at Scott's shoulder and his collarbone, tugging at the skin when Scott keens, sweet and high pitched.

“Jesus - _Mitchy_ ,” Scott whines, his back arching off the wall and Mitch moans, biting him again like he's starving, desperate to mark the man's beautiful, pale skin with his mouth, his nails dragging red lines down his sides. Scott hisses and grabs Mitch's hips tight in his hands, lifting him up like he's nothing and pushing his small body against their made up bed on the floor. 

Mitch gasps, hands grabbing at Scott's sides to pull him as close as possible, legs wrapping around the man's waist. Scott bites at his jaw and mouth, tugging at Mitch's bottom lip with his teeth to make him groan. Mitch’s hands grasp at Scott wherever he can reach, his fingernails grazing the blond’s skin. His back, his shoulders, his collarbones, they’re all marked by Mitch’s hands, red lines in the form of scratches imprinting on his flushed skin. 

Scott’s hands are on his little waist, and he pauses, hesitating. Mitch looks up at him impatiently, and Scott sighs, “I - I don’t have - everything’s in my car..”

Mitch rolls his eyes. “My bag is over there,” he huffs, pointing to his backpack off in the corner of the room. “Front pocket.” He bites his lip to keep from telling Scott to hurry up; his stomach is tight with anticipation and he can’t keep himself from shivering when he sees Scott’s half naked body, in all its glory. He can’t even imagine what Scott will look like with even _less_ clothing without moaning. 

Scott quickly unzips Mitch’s bag and grabs one of his condoms, with a small packet of lube. He smiles a little, but it’s tight and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your stash is running low, huh?” he asks, partially teasing, partially... something that Mitch can’t put his finger on. 

Mitch can feel his face flushing. “Just -” he stutters. “Get back over here, God.” Thankfully, Scott doesn’t waste any more time; he smiles a little, looking almost shy as he crawls back over. Mitch bites his lip as he stares up at the man. His cheeks are flushed red, his blue eyes glistening in the light shining from the lamp on the table, and Mitch suddenly can't catch his breath.

Scott gets on his knees between Mitch's thighs and they're kissing before Mitch can say anything else, his back arching off the sheets when Scott tugs at the zipper on his worn-out jeans. Scott runs his teeth over his chin and jaw, mouthing at Mitch's neck as he finally pulls them down, Mitch's impatient whining pushing him along. 

“Mitchy,” Scott hums, running his hands over the smaller boy’s waist, down to his thighs. “Hmm, Mitchy...”

“What, Scott?” Mitch grumbles, his fingers locked in Scott's hair and pulling, raising his hips off the ground so the blond will catch the hint and get him naked already.

But Scott stops mouthing at his chest, looks up at Mitch so their eyes lock. He smiles a little, his bottom lip dragging over Mitch's stomach as he does so, and he murmurs, “I've been wanting this for so damn long.”

Mitch's breath hitches, and he pulls on Scott's hair because he can't help it, his stomach doing flips. He opens his mouth to say something, a witty remark, anything, but Scott plays with the waistband of his briefs and murmurs, “Look at you. I don't know how I've managed to stay away for so long, baby.”

For a second, Mitch considers whispering, “Stop,” because he can’t stomach how sweet Scott is being to him. It doesn’t feel _right_ , as if he doesn’t deserve the blond’s caring words or sweet kisses. But he doesn’t say anything, nothing at all, because it’s too good for him to bring to an end. And he’s too selfish to do it anyway. 

He raises his hips once again, hoping Scott will stop talking and put his mouth to other uses now, but Scott just pushes him back down against their makeshift bed and he kisses his neck, nuzzling right beneath his chin. Mitch can’t help but feel the incredible, overwhelming urge to sob and he closes his eyes tight, trying to breathe through this. But Scott is just so soft and sweet, and Mitch doesn’t understand why because a second ago, they were hot and heavy and all Mitch wanted was a quick fuck.

As if he didn’t already know you can’t always get what you want. 

“Scott,” he whispers, begging his voice to not betray him and crack, and he digs his fingers into the man's shoulders, murmuring, “Fuck me, come on.”

That seems to wake him up and Scott nips at his jaw and smirks, kissing him nice and messy again and pulling down his briefs. Mitch sighs in relief against his mouth and pulls at Scott's pants, running his palm over him where he's full and thick. Scott's mouth goes slack against his and it's Mitch who smirks this time, getting back into his element.

“Yeah?” he breathes, tugging at the button and zipper until he can slide his hand inside, and Scott moans quietly against his jaw, rocking against his hand. Mitch nearly echoes his moan when he takes Scott in his hand, warm and so fucking good and God, he _wants_.

“I want you,” Mitch murmurs, spreading his legs in a way that is probably obscene, but he couldn't care less. “C’mon, I want you, Scott.”

And that's all it takes before Scott is on him again, their mouths coming together in a messier kiss and Mitch hums into his mouth, reaches blindly for the packet of lube and presses it into Scott's hand, grinding against his stomach.

Scott catches on quickly, fumbling with the packet with shaky fingers and Mitch watches him, panting. Scott is so damn beautiful it hurts and Mitch can feel his body pressing forward for more of his warmth, moaning quietly when Scott presses a few gentle fingers against him.

“Just - tell me when, okay, it's been so long,” Scott rambles, his eyes wide like he's nervous and Mitch isn't having that. He grabs Scott's jaw and nearly sits up in his haste to kiss the man, biting at his lips and sucking at them until Scott grunts, animalistic against his mouth.

“Fuck me, I want it,” Mitch murmurs, low and dirty and Scott moans, pressing him back against the sheets and getting him ready. Mitch throws his head back and tries to catch his breath, Scott's fingers perfect for this, stretching him nice and slow but just thick enough to make Mitch's hips roll up, his mouth open as he moans.

Scott doesn't stop kissing him, just presses kisses all over his jaw and chest and breathes against Mitch's mouth, curling his fingers and smirking when Mitch whimpers, clinging to his arms.

“I know,” Scott murmurs and Mitch groans, wrapping his legs around his waist and making the older man gasp. He tightens them and bites Scott's chin, murmuring, “Today, big guy,” going for taunting and impatient.

But Scott nearly laughs against his mouth, curls his fingers and murmurs, “Almost there, sweetheart,” and Mitch can feel his face flush.

“Scott, _now_ ,” he groans, grabbing at Scott's hips and digging his fingers in, grinding against his hand. Scott moans quietly and gives him a biting kiss that makes his lips sting before he finally pulls away, giving Mitch one last touch that makes his eyes nearly roll back.

Mitch pants and reaches for the condom with shaky fingers, tearing the packet with his teeth and pulling Scott's waist closer. Scott takes it from him, smirking, and slides it on. Mitch moans just from watching Scott fist himself, his legs wrapping around the man's waist again because he can't help it, shivering with anticipation.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, impatient and a little needy and Scott grabs his thighs, pulling him close and kissing him again. The blond whispers, “Baby, my sweet baby,” against his mouth and Mitch can feel himself stop breathing for a second, his entire body tensing up and his eyes suddenly burning. It’s only when Scott nips at his lips once more that Mitch finally regains his breath and allows himself to go slack once more. 

Mitch sighs against his mouth, runs his nails over the back of Scott's neck and lets his mouth fall open when he feels Scott press against him, thick and hot and so, so good.

“Oh, God,” Mitch moans, his eyes closing and head leaning back against the sheets. Scott nuzzles his neck, running his scruff over the sensitive skin there as he hums, squeezing Mitch's thighs tight in his hands.

“That's it,” Scott murmurs, biting gently at the skin right under Mitch's ear as he presses deeper, “That's it, sweetheart.”

Mitch gasps a little and Scott presses a soft, sweet kiss to his neck. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing him again. Everything slows down for a moment, and Mitch can’t take it. “So fucking beautiful, Mitchy. You’re perfect, baby.”

Mitch whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and biting at Scott's jaw when it hurts, breathing hard and digging his nails into his shoulders. Scott just hums, shushing him softly and rocking their hips together, kissing him nice and slow.

“I know, baby,” Scott whispers again and Mitch can't stand it, can't handle how sweet he's being and he clenches his jaw and lifts his hips up, making the blond moan.

“Fuck me,” Mitch manages and Scott stares down at him for a second, his blue eyes glistening again in the light, and for a second it's all Mitch can concentrate on; how close their bodies are pressed, so intimate and hot to the touch, Scott's fingers tight on his hips to keep him steady, his chest toned and pale. Mitch lets out a breath closer to a sob, arching his back off the floor.

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers again, breathless and closer to a plea and Scott snaps out of his own trance, lifting Mitch's hips and finally giving him what he wants.

Mitch cries out, hands flying to the sheets so he can have something to hold onto and Scott snaps their hips together, fingers digging into his skin so tight it hurts. Mitch's mouth falls open again, and the sound he makes must be too much for Scott because the man grunts and pulls him in deeper, leaning down and biting Mitch's chin and lips.

“Mitchy,” Scott groans, his eyes heavy and mouth going slack when Mitch whines at the angle change, his smaller hands clinging to Scott's hair again, tugging until the man hisses.

“Yeah?” Scott asks him, breathless and so damn hot, rocking their hips together. “Right there, huh, baby?”

Mitch closes his eyes and moans, his face flushing red as he clings to the man -- he's certain that he’s blushing because Scott keeps calling him “baby” and it has less to do with the fact that he can’t stop moaning and gasping and whimpering. He’s panting against his mouth. He can't control himself, can't hold it back when he whimpers, “Please - Don't stop, please.”

Scott moans, tangling the fingers of his free hand through Mitch's hair and pulling gently, tugging the boy's head back. “I won't, baby - I'm not gonna stop, I promise,” Scott murmurs, running his teeth over Mitch's chin and down to his exposed neck.

Mitch gasps, fingers clutching at Scott's shoulders and arms as he tries to gain back control of his body but he can't - it feels too good, the heat curling in his stomach and he hears the whimpers he keeps releasing. Hears the snaps of their hips together, Scott fucking him into the floor until his lower back is aching.

“Scott, _Scott_ ,” he hears himself whine, wrapping his arms around the man's waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

Scott groans, rocking their hips together and murmuring, “Baby - I've been thinking about this for so damn _long_ , baby boy.”

He kisses Mitch harder than he has before, with everything he's got, and Mitch is whining into his mouth within seconds, shaky hands grabbing at the man's back. Scott rolls his hips, grinding in deeper and he murmurs, “So long. Just wanted you to kiss me and hold me close, just like this.”

Mitch leans his head back and gasps out a sob, feeling his thighs start to shake. “Scott, Scott,” he chants, his voice going high pitched as he feels it build inside him, everything growing until it feels like he can't take it, like his body is too small for what Scott is making him feel.

Scott bites at his lips, runs his fingers through his hair as he fucks him and moans, “I want you to come, baby. My sweet baby. Are you gonna come for me?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Mitch whimpers, his eyes rolling back. He drags his nails down Scott's back and opens his eyes, seeing nothing but bright blue staring back at him, so open and clear and loving and Mitch feels like he might faint. 

“Please, Mitchy, please,” Scott grunts and Mitch isn’t entirely sure what he’s asking for, but he moans in response, his eyes squeezing shut as Scott rolls their hips together. The blond’s hands are squeezing his waist so tight, lifting him up and moving him against him and Mitch all but cries out. Scott groans again, “ _Please_ , baby boy,” and Mitch can’t stop himself from coming all over the blond’s stomach. 

It happens so quickly it feels like a punch and Mitch arches off the floor, crying out something incoherent and clinging to Scott's body, pulling the man as close as he possibly can. He's sure his whines are echoing around the room at this point and he sobs, his thighs trembling at the force of the heat in his stomach, curling through him in waves, like it's never going to stop.

“Scott - yes, _fuck_ ,” Mitch whimpers, pressing his face against Scott's neck and gasping. Scott moans, biting at his jaw and ear as he fucks him through it, holding onto him so tight it hurts.

“I know, baby boy, I got you,” Scott murmurs, deep and breathless and Mitch digs his nails into Scott's back and drags them down, biting at his neck.

Scott cries out at the sudden pain, his hips jerking forward and Mitch murmurs, “Scott - come for me, please.”

The blond growls, rocking his hips forward so hard it nearly hurts and Mitch gasps, opening his eyes wide and grabbing Scott's face in his hands, making sure their gaze is locked. Immediately, he regrets this decision because as soon as he sees Scott’s eyes, so wide and blue and full of pure, raw _emotion_ , Mitch is hit with the overwhelming urge to cry. 

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking with everything he's feeling, his chest aching with it. “I want it, I know you're so close, baby, please - “

And Scott is growling again, taking Mitch's bottom lip in his mouth and biting so hard that there must be blood and Mitch arches off the floor, whining from the pain and Scott comes, moaning desperately against his mouth, dragging his nails over Mitch's waist. He whispers, “Please, please, please,” over and over again in a desperate whisper until Scott is crying out in a similar fashion that Mitch had done a moment ago. His entire body shudders and Mitch holds him as close as he can, burying his face against the blond’s neck when he feels tears - actual _tears_ \- burning at his eyes. 

He doesn’t want Scott to see him like this, but when Scott comes down from his high, he can’t stop the sob that escapes his lips. 

“Baby?” Scott whispers, still gasping and panting a little. “Mitch - baby, what’s wrong?” 

Mitch just shakes his head, his face still pressed against Scott’s neck, and he sobs again, his entire frame shaking like a leaf in a storm. 

“Baby,” Scott whispers again, and Mitch sobs once more, unable to deal with Scott’s genuine affection towards him. It had been so _long_ since someone was even remotely decent towards him, and now there’s Scott, who came out of nowhere and is showering him with something similar to love and Mitch just can’t handle it. He had been so certain that no one cared about him anymore, and honestly? That’s how he preferred it. The less people affected by his inevitable death, the better. The less people to inevitably hurt him and let him down, the better.

But now he has Scott - he _has_ Scott. And Scott _has_ him. He’s someone’s “baby” again. Now, Mitch has someone who gives a damn about him and that’s the last thing he ever wanted. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Scott whispers to him, peppering the side of his face with little kisses. “It’s okay, Mitchy. Don’t cry, baby, I’m here.”

And Mitch sobs once again because, unbeknownst to Scott, that’s the exact reason why he’s crying in the first place. 

Scott holds Mitch’s hip as he pulls out slowly, kissing Mitch when he hisses, and he discards the used condom before pulling Mitch in his arms. He holds him tight, hugging him with no intent of letting him go. Mitch tries to relax, let himself fall under Scott’s spell like he had before, but he can’t. He can’t stop crying, and he can’t stop feeling so utterly humiliated and vulnerable and _scared_. Scared of getting any closer to Scott. Scared of hurting Scott more than he already has. Scared of Scott getting to know the real Mitch - the Mitch who doesn’t deserve to be loved.

He waits until Scott is asleep, until he's breathing soft and sweet and so damn beautiful. Takes in his gorgeous face, his eyelashes resting so gently and brushing against his cheeks when they flutter in his slumber. Mitch swallows hard, eyes filling to the brim with tears, wanting to run his fingers through Scott's hair, kiss him until he wakes up and makes love to him again, because that's what just happened. Wants Scott to make him feel loved and likes he's not broken, like he's not damaged goods. Like he could really, truly be wanted and loved again.

But he doesn't. He slowly untangles himself from the man's embrace, where he feels warm and safe. He packs his bag in the soft light from the lamp and leaves without taking one glance back.


	11. checking out on the prison bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as he was sure Scott was fast asleep, and more importantly not easily woken, he left. He tried not to look back as he gathered up his things and he did not let himself cry as he quietly left the store, even though he felt the tears burning at his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, shit gets REAL and a LOT happens in this chapter, so let’s just get right to it!!! 
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au.
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include** : _implied attempted rape/sexual assault, violence, asphyxiation, attempted murder, and death mentions._
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Mitch ignores the burn in his thighs as he walks, in favor of punishing himself for getting so comfortable over the past few days. He should’ve kept moving, should’ve kept walking, but he allowed himself to get comfortable and take the easy way out. Even though it had only been for a few days, his legs had already forgotten what it was like to walk for hours on end - like he had been doing today. 

He hardly slept at all last night, despite the fact that sex with Scott wore him out completely, and as soon as he was sure Scott was fast asleep, and more importantly not easily woken, he left. He tried not to look back as he gathered up his things and he did not let himself cry as he quietly left the store, even though he felt the tears burning at his eyes. He walked past Scott’s truck, not even considering taking it and he just started walking. 

He wasn’t sure where he was going, he just knew that he had to get as far away from Scott as he could. 

Mitch eats a granola bar as he walks, feeling slightly guilty that he took it from Scott's stash, but he needs all the strength he can get. He doesn't see anyone for the first two or so hours and he doesn't get nearly as far as he usually would because of his leg, but he figures the chances of Scott finding him are very slim. If Scott even comes looking for him, that is.

He tries to forget about it, forget about the burn in his thighs, the stinging of his lips and the hickeys on his neck. He's not sure what they look like but he knows they're there, making his skin sensitive to the touch. It makes him want to cry.

Mitch barely notices the group of men until he hears their murmuring. It isn't common to see people walking around outside at this hour, especially in groups, so Mitch just stares forward and keeps walking, figures they're just minding their own business.

That is, until their talking gets louder, and Mitch starts to hear whistling.

He rolls his eyes, can't help it. This has happened before, with men who have no self control and think his small body is nice to look at, maybe even nice to touch and mess with.

“Where you going, sweetheart?” one of the men slurs, leaning against the wall of a broken down building like it's the only thing keeping him standing. Mitch takes a quick glance, counting quickly - five, there are five men - and he continues walking, not speeding up. He can't seem afraid or like he's running.

“Nice marks you got there, just got done with your last customer?” one of them asks and the men below with laughter. Mitch can sense them coming closer to him, and he tightens his grip on his shotty, clenching his jaw. But he doesn’t react and he doesn’t respond, just keeps on walking and hopes that his lack of interest will bore them and they’ll just leave him alone. 

They don’t, of course they don’t. Because Mitch is tiny and cute and that makes him an easy target. Because there’s five of them and one of him. Because they’re so positive that they’d be able to push Mitch around and get whatever it is that they want from him. 

When their jeering and whistling doesn’t get a reaction, one of the five steps in front of him, physically stopping him in his tracks. Mitch heaves a heavy sigh, clearly annoyed, and he still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at this guy; he keeps his eyes downcast, focused on their shoes. 

“Where are you headed to, baby?” he asks. Mitch can _feel_ the smirk on this asshole’s face. Mitch doesn’t say anything, his jaw tensing up even more until it almost hurts. “Oh, come on, sweetheart, don’t be so cold,” the guy continues, his equally asshole buddies laughing in the background. Their voices sound like buzzing in Mitch’s ears, akin to white noise, and it sets his nerves on edge. 

“I don’t have any food,” he grits out, his voice rough and hoarse from last night. 

The guy laughs, “Food isn’t what I’m looking for,” he says. Mitch feels nauseated thinking about the smirk on his face. It makes his skin crawl. 

Hoping to appear uninterested - which he most definitely is - Mitch just rolls his eyes and murmurs, “I’m not looking for any trouble, okay?”

“Looks like trouble is exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into, little one.” Mitch doesn’t notice the way the man’s hand reaches out towards him, but as soon as he feels clammy fingers pressing against one of the hickeys on his collarbone, Mitch’s knee-jerk reaction is to swing his shotgun upward and hit the guy as hard as he can.

The swing smashes the gun against the man’s jaw and Mitch can’t catch his breath at the force of it, watching as the man half spins and lands on the ground with a loud boom, the dry earth puffing up in a cloud around him. Mitch barely realizes what he did, it was such a gut reaction and his eyes widen, because now the other men are gaping, staring at him like he just became a different person in front of their eyes.

“What the fuck - “ one of them starts and Mitch takes a step back, but not fast enough. One grabs at his gun and pulls, making him lose his balance for half a second and Mitch reacts the only way that he can, holding onto his shotty with both hands and kicking, landing it on the man’s knee and making him buckle to the ground.

Mitch has been defending himself for a very long time - he lifts things when he can to gather his strength, and he knows defense mechanisms to get him out of most trouble. But there are three men left and no amount of strength can stop them from jumping him. He stumbles backwards, clinging to his gun and dropping it at the last second when the men grab at him, shoving him to the ground.

He swears, the dirt flying all around him and he kicks and flails his arms, hoping to catch one of them in his haste but it doesn’t work. Mitch reaches for his gun, barely an inch from his hand on the ground and a man grabs it first. Mitch closes his eyes, expecting a gunshot, feels the sinking feeling in his stomach - _oh, I’m dead, holy shit, I’m dead_ \- and feels the blunt head of the shotgun slam against his jawline.

Mitch cries out, can’t help it, the pain is excruciating - he feels his jaw swell almost instantly, his mouth filling with blood and he spits to the side, trying to crawl away before another swing and there’s a kick against his stomach, making him fly onto his back and slam against the ground again. He coughs, groaning and trying to catch his breath, and the men are on him again, grabbing at his arms.

“You think you’re gonna get away that easy, huh?” one of them slurs, smirking down at him and Mitch kicks, completely missing him because of the dizziness he feels and the man laughs, thinking it’s hilarious. He grabs at Mitch’s thighs and spreads them, his hands tightening around the fabric of his pants and he holds Mitch so tightly that he can hardly move. Mitch’s eyes widen and he bucks off the ground, hoping to somehow free himself, but his arms are being held and he can’t do anything about it.

This man’s hands are on his legs in the same way that Scott’s were just hours ago, but it’s not the same, not the same at all. When Scott touched him, he felt safe and warm and secure. Right now, Mitch feels like he wants to die. He feels afraid. 

MItch starts to panic, feels it grow in his chest slowly and then all at once. He gasps, trying to curl his legs and the man laughs. The laughter is all around him, the men are grabbing at his shirt and holding his flailing arms. The man looks down at him and smirks, shining yellow teeth showing.

He grabs at the waistband of Mitch’s pants, tugging at the zipper and pulling down. Mitch bucks, trying to shove him off, feeling his face burn with shame. His pants start to gather at his knees and Mitch finds it harder and harder to breathe. He lays there, exposed in only his underwear, in front of two men whose intentions are so vile, it turns Mitch’s stomach to even think about what they want to do to him. 

“He’s a feisty one, isn’t he?” the man asks like Mitch isn’t the first one, isn’t the only one and anger burns at Mitch’s eyes, thinking of the other poor people they’ve taken advantage of, and he decides he isn’t going down without a fight. The man touches Mitch’s thighs, his dirty, calloused hands pressing against Mitch’s skin, littered with hickeys from Scott. He cups Mitch’s thigh in his hand and starts to move his hand up towards Mitch’s underwear, and it takes all of Mitch’s strength not to throw up. 

He has to think fast, he has to act fast. _No one_ is _ever_ going to touch him like _that_ , not without his consent. 

“Yeah?” Mitch asks, his voice breathless and thick with blood, tries to bite his lip as best he can with the pain he’s feeling in his mouth. He praises himself for sounding so confident and sure of himself, even though he feels like his voice should be shaking. He arches his back off the ground, feeling his shirt ride up and exposing his lower stomach, more hickeys and marks there for them to see.

“You want me?” he asks in his softest voice, tightening his legs around his thighs. The man is stunned, mouth falling open as he takes in Mitch’s movements and Mitch knows it works, he’s done this before. If he can be seductive enough while he’s just walking and minding his own business, he can use his seduction to defeat these monsters as well.

Mitch arches again, feeling the men at his arms nearly let him go in surprise, and he moans quietly, a soft, “Daddy...” leaving his lips and when he knows he has them, really has them, he curls his leg and kicks, slamming it against the man’s jaw, knocking him down.

He tries to use their surprise to his advantage and he flings forward, trying to sit up and run but the hands are back on him in seconds, angrier and stronger than they were before.

“You little _shit_ ,” one of the remaining two snarls and Mitch is pulled back to the ground, gasping at the force of it, and there’s a punch against his jaw, two, three, and he whimpers, trying to kick his legs and realizing they’re being held down again. There’s two more men, two, and Mitch can feel the blood in his mouth nearly overflow.

He groans, trying to get himself free and the man, bigger than the others, sits on his legs and pins him down, snarling, “Okay, _enough_.”

Mitch’s arms are being held down and he gasps, trying to catch his breath and when the man reaches for his pants again, Mitch spits in his face, blood spewing out of his mouth. The man growls, shoving him against the ground with a hand on his chest and punching him again, fist closed.

Mitch sees stars, he swears, they shine behind his eyelids. He whines, the pain so dull and throbbing through him, through his neck and chest, and soon he can’t feel his legs, the man’s weight so intense on his thighs. He lets out a sobbing breath, can’t help it, trying so hard to tug his arms back.

He thinks about last night, when he was on his back so lovingly, Scott looking down at him with his blue eyes, taking care of him as best as he could, making him cry because of _everything_ he made Mitch feel. He thinks about how incredibly stupid he’s been - to let go of him, let go of that moment and just crawling right back into harm’s way, like he doesn’t deserve to be happy.

“Please,” Mitch hears himself whimper, knowing he’s so close to losing, so close to giving up. “Please, just leave me alone.”

The man laughs - he fucking _laughs_ in Mitch’s face and he hears his friend laughing around him too, the sounds echoing in Mitch’s head, making his ears ring. His face burns with anger; how fucking dare they laugh at him? It’s bad enough they’ve harassed and attacked him - now they have the _audacity_ to laugh in his face after they’ve pushed him to the brink of just giving up completely. No. Fuck that, and fuck them.

Mitch Grassi does not go down without a fight. 

“You sound so good when you beg, sweetheart,” the one on top of him drawls, laughter still evident in his tone and nothing, nothing at all, makes Mitch angrier.

“I’m not your mother,” Mitch snaps and he wishes he could bring himself to smirk when he sees the smile drop from the man's face and his eyes darken, “Don’t talk to me like that.” 

For a moment, he’s proud of himself and he had hoped to catch the guy off guard so he could get him off but instead, the man wraps his hands around Mitch’s throat. 

Mitch’s breath seizes up right away, his eyes widening in shock and horror. “You aren’t even worth the fuck,” the man hisses to him, squeezing his throat tighter and tighter. “I’m just going to kill you. Leave you to die right here. And nobody is going to care at all. You’re buzzard food now, slut.” 

Mitch gasps a little but it hurts his chest and he can’t properly exhale, much less inhale, and everything hurts and he can’t _breathe_. His eyes well up with tears at the pain and he coughs, his body squirming around with the futile attempt to get this guy off him. He doesn’t budge, not even a little bit, his body dead weight on top of Mitch. His thumbs press against his jugular, the pressure unbearable and Mitch’s vision becomes clouded with black spots.

He can’t breathe. Mitch is going to die here, and nobody is going to know. And nobody is going to care. 

He’s scared - fucking terrified. His entire body is struggling, trying to live even though death feels as though it’s creeping up on him closer and closer. All he can think, in the midst of his hazy mind, is that he wants Scott. God, he wants Scott so badly. He’s trying to fight this, trying to live because he is the only reason Mitch can come up with to fight a little harder, but it isn’t working - nothing is working. Mitch is going to die here, at the hand of someone he doesn’t even know. For a moment, he contemplates if this is a worse fate than death by zombie, but he can’t decide which would be a worse way to go. 

He doesn’t want to die. He thought he did, he really thought he wanted to die. For months, maybe even longer, Mitch had been contemplating just ending it all once and for all. It would have been so easy, to just end this horrible suffering. And now here he is, so close to death, and he realizes that he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to die. _He doesn’t want to die_. 

Mitch hears himself squeal, trying so hard to catch a breath and he realizes his hands are free. He claws at the man's arms, digging his nails as deep as he can into his skin but he's too weak, it's not enough. He lets out a sound akin to a sob and feels the man dig his thumbs into his pulse.

He's fading. He can feel it, starting at the corners of his eyes and it's been seconds but it feels like it's been years. Tears run down his face and all he can think is, _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Scott._

“Nothing to say now, huh?” Mitch thinks he hears the man laugh and he can feel the pressure building in his skull, so desperate to take in air, so close to giving up.

He thinks about Scott, his loving gaze and his sweet hands. The way he held him last night, so close and tight and safe. The safest Mitch has ever felt, with Scott's lips against his. He thinks about those eyes of his, so open and kind.

The last thing he thinks about is that beautiful shade of blue, before his vision fades to black.


	12. this is it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now he’s been driving around for nearly half an hour, not entirely sure where the hell he’s going but he has the destination clear in his mind: Mitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, okay, yes we know we took about a thousand years to update and we are SO so sorry. but we’re back and this fic is actually going to be coming to a close soon! here’s another intense chapter for yall, we really hope you like it! and thank you to everyone for being patient and sticking by us, we love you <3
> 
> loosely inspired by/based off of the movie "Zombieland" + zombie apocalypse au.
> 
> individual chapter warnings will apply - **warnings for chapter include** : _violence_
> 
> fic title from “Nicotine” by Panic! At the Disco and chapter titles from “Radioactive” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated!! <3

Scott grips the steering wheel in tight fists, his knuckles white with how hard he’s gripping the wheel, and his jaw is set as his eyes scan the horizon for Mitch. He’s probably driving much faster than he should be, especially since he’s looking for someone, but he’s just so angry that he can’t get himself to slow down. But as angry as he is, he still can’t shake the initial feeling of fear he felt this morning when he woke up and saw that Mitch was gone.

He woke up a little later than he usually did, alarmed at how long he had slept for, but the lasting feeling from his peaceful slumber and overall good mood vanished immediately when he realized that Mitch wasn’t in his arms. He sat up immediately, his heart sinking into his stomach, and he went silent, listening to anything that would let him know that Mitch was still here. Perhaps he was using the bathroom, or maybe he was making something to eat. But minutes passed and Mitch didn’t come back and the panic immediately set in. 

Jumping up to his feet, he called out, “Mitch!” and he nearly ran out of the store without his shoes on. “Mitch!” Outside, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Mitch!” Swearing under his breath when Mitch doesn’t answer, he didn’t think twice; he just grabbed his things as quickly as he could and he got into his truck. 

And now he’s been driving around for nearly half an hour, not entirely sure where the hell he’s going but he has the destination clear in his mind: Mitch.

It’s hard to find someone who doesn’t want to be found, and Mitch definitely fits that mold. Scott doesn’t know where he could have gone - he doesn’t even know when Mitch left him. He may be on foot, but Scott knows that won’t stop Mitch; he’s a determined person, and he’s stubborn, and whatever he sets his mind to, he will achieve. 

Nothing breaks Scott’s heart more than thinking that Mitch has set his mind to getting far away from him. 

After the initial fear of realizing that Mitch had vanished before him subsided, he felt hurt. So much hurt. Hurt that Mitch was gone because he realized quickly that no one had taken him or hurt him, that he wasn’t attacked or injured. If that had happened, Scott would’ve known because Mitch would’ve put up a fight, that’s what he does. And when he saw that there was not a trace of him left whatsoever, Scott knew what had happened. 

He left. 

Mitch left him. 

And that hurt so bad. 

But despite the fact that Mitch willingly left him, Scott is still driving around like a madman trying to find him. And why? Mitch clearly doesn’t care about him - Mitch doesn’t _want_ him. And yet, Scott is trying so hard to find him and make sure he’s okay. Why the hell is Scott trying so hard for someone who doesn’t give a shit about him? 

It’s not just for a peace of mind, and he knows that. Deep down, Scott knows the answer, but he can’t bring himself to admit to himself. 

He groans, slamming his hand against the steering wheel as he keeps driving. The hickeys on his neck and shoulders are fresh and aching, his lips stinging from Mitch’s biting lips from the night before. His eyes burn with unshed tears and he thinks, _Please. Let me kiss him one more time._

Scott wants to fix this. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, _if_ he did anything wrong, but he knows that he can make this better. He holds back the thick feeling in his throat that makes him want to sob, because he feels weak and small in this massive truck by himself. 

It takes him nearly an hour of roaming around the dirty streets, driving fast and reckless like he used to back in the old days, switching directions when he sees no sign of other people. When he sees smoke from a fire by a building he’s near, he slams on the brakes so hard the truck nearly skids.

Scott’s mind keeps chanting _it’s him, it must be him_ , though he knows deep down that Mitch wouldn’t be dumb enough to create a fire if he doesn’t want to be found. But he’s out of the car in seconds, grabbing his gun and cocking it just in case, when he hears it.

He stops dead in his tracks. Hears the sound of struggling, desperate sounds coming from around the building and he runs, despite his heart nearly stopping in his chest because he _knows_.

Scott sees a few bodies on the ground, big men struggling to get up. He sees blood, spewed all over the dirt. He sees the bottom of Mitch’s shoes, struggling against the ground and a body straddling him, and his mind goes blank.

He barely knows what he’s doing, sees a man standing by and watching what is happening to Mitch and not doing a damn thing to stop it, and he lifts his gun and shoots, doesn’t think twice. The sound is loud to say the least and the man gapes at him, a pool of blood starting to form on his chest and he falls onto his back. Scott takes the barrel of the gun and slams it like a baseball bat against the back of the man’s neck who is straddling Mitch.

The man is practically unconscious from the blow and Scott pulls him off of Mitch’s body. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he takes a deep breath, his surroundings returning to him. He can see the blue of the sky and the dirt rising around them, can see the other men running for their lives. He can’t hear a damn thing, doesn’t take a glance at Mitch’s body, can’t physically do it, not yet, just straddles the other man and slams his fist against his jaw, and then another, and then another.

The tears run down Scott’s face and he gasps, hitting the man over and over until he can’t tell the difference between his hands and the man’s face, can’t tell what is blood and what is skin, doesn’t know who he is anymore. He snarls, using his nails, not knowing what he’s doing, barely knowing _why_ when his ears start working again, and he hears it.

_“S - Scott..”_

Scott’s head snaps towards the broken boy on the ground, his mind reeling as he finally has the courage to take him in. Mitch is heaving for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly like it’s the first breath he’s ever taken and his body is squirming on the ground, trying to hold in air and not being able to.

Scott sobs, crawling over to Mitch’s body and pulling at his legs to bring him closer, running his hands over the boy’s stomach and chest, checking for any other injuries. Mitch gasps, trying to take in a deep breath and he heaves, hands flying towards Scott’s arms and digging his nails in.

“Sc - Sco - “ Mitch gasps, trying so hard to speak and Scott shushes him, gently cupping the boy’s neck in his hands.

“No,” Scott murmurs, feeling sick to his stomach when he sees the fingerprints, dark and purple around Mitch’s slender throat, “Oh, baby, _no_.”

Mitch lets out a thick sob, gagging once it’s out and Scott shushes him again, turning him as gently as he can so Mitch is on his hands and knees. Mitch clings to the dirt, letting out another horrible sound, the blood dripping from his mouth and turning into vomit as he heaves. Scott pulls Mitch’s pants up as best as he can, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling Mitch close so his chest is pressed against the boy’s shaking back.

“Oh, angel. I’m so sorry - Mitchy, just breathe. I have you,” Scott sobs, trying to hide the words against his hair and Mitch is hysterical once he can breathe again, his cries loud and thick. Scott turns him around and pulls him close, flinching when Mitch groans from the pain. The boy’s jaw is so swollen he can barely open his mouth, blood running down his chin and throat and Mitch clings to his shoulders so tight it makes Scott grit his teeth.

“I - Scott, I,” Mitch sobs, his voice still thick with blood and Scott wraps his arms around Mitch’s waist, hoisting him up as best as he can while still grabbing his gun. 

“Don’t, baby, I have you. It’s okay,” Scott murmurs as he stands and Mitch tenses from the pain, sobbing against his neck like a little kid. He moves as fast as he can, but carefully to ensure that Mitch isn’t hurt more than he already is. He whispers sweet nothings to him, not entirely sure what he’s saying because he can barely hear himself over his own tears, but he keeps on talking to Mitch, making sure to keep the boy as calm as possible. 

He gets Mitch back to the truck and gently places him in the passenger seat, but Mitch clings to him as he tries to buckle him in, sobbing his neck and latching onto his shirt. “It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere,” Scott tells him, his voice soft and shaking. “I’m going to get you out of here.” 

Mitch lets go of him reluctantly and curls up on the seat, hugging his legs. He looks broken and so small, Scott runs to get back in the driver’s seat so they can go somewhere safe.

Driving with one hand isn’t easy at all, but Scott makes it his mission to hold Mitch’s hand the entire time. 

* * *

They’re safe and sound inside of an abandoned pharmacy. Scott cleans all of the blood off of Mitch with whatever gauze and wipes he can find, and then he wraps Mitch up in a moth hole ridden blanket, that feels more like a thin rag than a blanket. Mitch whimpers and flinches, but Scott is slow and gentle, humming to him to try and calm him down. When he’s finally clean, Scott wraps his arms around the younger boy, hugging him close and tight. Mitch whimpers softly, hiding his face in the crook of Scott’s neck and Scott softly kisses the side of Mitch’s face. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

The wind blows outside, tree branches rattling against the one window in the room. Scott had found a lantern and lit it, a dim orange glow illuminating both boys’ faces. If circumstances were different, the setting would be nice, cozy even. But Scott doesn’t think about that - he can’t. Instead, he just holds Mitch in his arms and whispers to him, “Get some rest, Mitchy. I’ll watch over you while you sleep, I promise I’ll keep you safe.” 

Mitch just nods and Scott can feel his eyelashes flutter against his neck. Several minutes pass and Scott can feel Mitch relaxing against him, his body going limp. And Scott can finally breathe. Mitch is going to get the rest he needs, he’s going to sleep off this horrible day, and all will be forgotten. All will be okay. 

However, Scott fails to account for the fact that nothing ever works out in his or Mitch’s favor, and it’s only a few minutes later that Scott is holding a hysterical Mitch in his arms, trying to console him after a nightmare. “Mitch, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” Scott tries to tell him but he’s sure that Mitch can’t even hear him over his own sobs. 

“ _No_ ,” Mitch shrieks, both pushing Scott away and clinging to him at the same time. “ _Please_!” 

“It’s okay,” Scott murmurs to him. He cradles the brunet’s head against his chest, as if he were a baby nursing, and he says, “I got you, Mitch, I got you. I’m here.” Mitch sniffles, his hands grabbing at Scott’s shirt and holding it tight in his fists. Scott gently pushes Mitch back so he can press a comforting kiss to his forehead, but Mitch surprises him by kissing him hard on the mouth. 

Scott lets out something akin to a squeak when Mitch kisses him, his eyes going wide and then blinking in confusion. Mitch kisses down Scott’s mouth, to his chin, and along his jaw. Gently, Scott pushes him away, mumbling, “Mitchy,” as he tries to get a hold on what is going on. 

Mitch just clings to him like a koala to a tree, and he whimpers, “Hold me. Please?” 

How can Scott deny those wide, teary eyes? That childlike face? That soft, shaky voice. Scott stutters, “Oh - okay,” and he hesitantly welcomes Mitch back into his arms. As soon as Scott says, “Okay,” however, Mitch kisses him again, hard and needy. He clings to Scott desperately, grabbing at him blindly, reaching for Scott’s hair and kissing his neck.

Once again, Scott pushes him away. “Mitch, what are you _doing_?” he asks, trying to understand why Mitch is acting like this. Scott doesn’t understand it; he’s been through a horrible trauma today and he needs to rest and be coddled. He’s too fragile right now for anything else. 

Tears roll down Mitch’s cheeks. “Take me, please,” he whimpers, breathless. He’s shaking all over but Scott’s body goes rigid. “I - I can’t stop thinking about them,” Mitch explains. “Please - please help me forget, Scotty. _Please_.” 

“I -” Scott is speechless, his jaw hangs open but no sound comes out. To say he’s shocked right now would be an understatement, and he doesn’t know what to think, much less what to say to Mitch. 

“Scotty,” Mitch almost whines, trying to kiss Scott again but Scott pushes him away and holds him in place not too tight, but firmly. 

“Mitch, just relax,” Scott tells him, silently telling himself the same thing. “It’s okay.”

“Please,” Mitch sobs, tears staining his cheeks. “Please, I keep seeing his _face_ \- I just want to forget.”

“I know you do,” Scott tells him, resisting Mitch when he tries to kiss him once again. “But I can’t - we can’t. You’ll forget him soon -”

“Help me forget!” Mitch begs him, desperate and pleading as his voice gets caught in another sob. “Please, please help me, Scotty. I need you.” 

“Mitch…” Scott cups Mitch’s face in his hands, thumbing his tears away, and Mitch sobs again, his small frame shaking like a leaf in a storm. “Baby - I want to help you, but not like _this_. We can’t -”

“Scott, _please_ ,” Mitch sobs, his face crumpling when Scott once again denies him what he needs. “I need you.”

“I’m here, I’m right here,” Scott tries to tell him. Mitch wraps his legs around Scott’s waist, settling in his lap, but Scott holds him in place, not letting him do anything more. And Mitch sobs; loud, heart-wrenching sobs. His body goes limp and Scott pulls him into a tight embrace, holding him in his arms while he cries. Neither of them sleep for the rest of the night, despite the fact that Mitch exhausts himself from crying. But as soon as he stops, Scott starts, silent tears falling down his face and landing in Mitch’s hair. They don’t utter a word until the sun rises.


End file.
